I said I wouldn't really want statues to me and that's true. That would conflict with my conviction that glory is useless. I'm not really seeking glory through statues, being Grand Marshall of the parade, special newspaper editions, commemorative coins or plates, laminated bookmarks with my more famous quotations, a movie of the week, or even a wooden historical marker and tiny driveway offset from the road for sightseers.
What would I do then? I'd have to comb my hair every morning before stepping out with a mouse from the trap to fling it in the road. I'd need to side the house and spruce up the place. Because appearances can be deceiving. How can someone who changed the world live in such an ordinary looking house? Just because Abraham Lincoln came from squalor and did so well doesn't mean the rest of us can expect the same luxury.

Vanessa looks up at me. Our eyes meet for the first time, and it's like we're suddenly in a beautiful garden, with Donovan behind us there in the weeds, gently strumming his guitar and singing "Wear Your Love Like Heaven." Eventually we marry, the twins go to school, Mom gets a job at Mode-a-Day, Dad becomes our handyman, Donovan stays, marries Grandma and becomes my step-grandfather. We live off his royalties, Mom's dress shop pay, and my disability checks (I have a game toe). Vanessa and I can barely leave our honeymoon citadel. In honor of the 40th anniversary of Apollo 11, I might say, the first time anyway, "Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed."
But, setting all that aside, I can't act on any of my great ideas to change the world -- for one big stupid reason, I'm on hiatus. I've got time off, time to kill, and that's my lot in life. But, you know, there's something else I just might kill, and that's my hiatus itself. It's stunting me, drying up all my moss. It's got me surrounded, hemmed in on every side. I'm not its master but its victim! I gave it life ... and now I'm afraid it's up to me to take its life away.
But how? My weapons it's hidden. Knives, swords, clubs, guns, my complete arsenal. The hiatus -- in its blob form -- has enveloped my weapons, knowing my plans. (It seems I have at least one reader.) The only deadly weapon in the house is the rolling pin, and it's doubtful that could do much damage to a shapeshifting blob. It'd be like striking a beanbag chair. Or a sponge, which would only spring back spongier than before.
I do have one idea that I think could very well get the job done. But I need the day to think it over. My first thought is that it just might work!
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