Mandarin Oranges break into beads that thread through the carpet I walk on. An old grape tomato, the cat’s new toy splatters – on the hall wall I wander down for more milk – that will spit itself onto the suede couch I plop my peanut butter jelly ass on. Water in the sink, on the floor, hugs the rug and runs into the side of the tub, the toilet I’m in need of. A toy car beneath the sheets of my bed – I yearn for an active dream – drives me to a days blacked out end. Awakened by whine for more games, more play – is the radio station that cries for my dancing. A coffee cup already cold, spoiled creamer – gets the dishes done, the garbage outdoors, and the breakfast made from a toaster. No arpon with flowers or heels that click, just my hair in a knot, some old stained socks decorated in crumbs and butter. Can’t wait to have kids, be a stay at home mom, and go mad walking through a circular door of unclean paths in need of maiding.