Dwindling Dwelling Dilemma

If you’re reading this as allegory, don’t hurt yourself.

The demure dwelling of a one Miss Renee Forman-Fortnight was located in an inconspicuous row house on the west side of town near the railroad tracks.

Passing trains rattled the dust on the shelves in the house, and the perturbed knowledge knot of our heroine when she doth dwell there, but that is not now.

Miss Renee worked in the up-and-coming field of things, located next to the €uro Store. The €uro Store was a cheap dollar store knock-off. The up-and-coming field of things was a field. They weren’t even in Europe!

That wasn’t what was bothering Renee. What was troubling her at the moment was the fact that, momentarily, she completely forgot the meaning of the phrase, “Can I get a witness?”

There was no context into which she could place it. Was it actually a crime thing? A gospel thing? Who the hell knew?

Any remaining meaning drained completely as Renee started stroking the silky hair of some weird-ass heirloom variety of corn. It was beautifully multi-colored, and each kernel spoke passable Dutch.

Sailing on the fleeting euphoria, like a kid who bought a balloon of nitrous at a Primus show, she sailed. The sailing was worth mentioning three times. Pure ignorant bliss, physically pleasurable.

One brief moment later, the weight of realization washed soberingly over Ms. For-Fornight. She looked at the tiny, rotten tomato on the ground next to the cornstalk’s trippy roots, and stepped to the side.

The up-and-coming field of things was chock full of all kinds of the usual loony produce, and it was Renee’s humble duty to pick whatever the hell grew, and sell it at the farmer’s market.

The size of her house depended on it, and therein was Ms. For-For’s problem. Her dwelling was now approaching lilliputian proportions, because only the weirdest plants she had ever seen would grow in the up-and-coming-field-of-things.

Every time she sold a weird-ass plant to some hippie, her house would power up and increase in size. But that hadn’t happened in a while, and her dwindling dwelling was risking disappearing altogether, at least to the point where she wouldn’t be able to find it any more, or would accidentally step on it.

Unable to think of what to do, she half-halfheartedly did the only thing she could do, which was her dead-on impression of Milton Berle. She could even conjure a cigar from the ether when she really felt like getting into her act.

She was super into it, so much so that her act was able to summon the wandering ghost of David Rockefeller, who then said, “I finally understand why bums say the phrase, ‘You don’t have to be a Rockefella to help a fella.’”

Well, the ghost scared me so damn much, I ran away and never did get to hear the end of Ms. For’s tale. I hope her house didn’t disappear!

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