I've been attending a writers' group held at the Hatchery Press in Larchmont (my neighborhood in Los Angeles). They've got a cool way to workshop: each person picks a random literary book, flips to a random page, and the first sentence their eyes hit is the first sentence of a short story. Below is one of those. I bolded the random sentence.
I would wear an extra-visibility onesie. A one-piece-rocketship-pajama get-up that would shock everyone in that Indiana parking lot except for the toddler who’d just say wow. But then his mom and dad would pull him off the summer asphalt and pop him into the high chair. I’d love to be a toddler. Your whole world’s censored from the big bad kid stuff, so all you can encounter is the cool stuff down where you’re at. You know, like the taste of playdough. Or a puddle jump. Or a cool 40 year old man wearing rocketship pajamas on Lafayette boulevard. Because that’s how it should be. I should be cool, walking up to the supermarket wearing my rocketship onesie.
Why am I in a onesie? Because I’m one of a kind, my guy, and I live life on the edge between being a child and being a manchild. Because I think Elon Musk’s rockets are the bees knees and I eat different flavored pringles in layers to create new flavors. Ever had the cheeseburger flavor? You take a pickle pringle and a bacon pringle and a sour cream pringle and WHAM you’ve got a cheeseburger pringle. I’m on a roll, my man. Prince Pringle, they call me on Reddit. Got a vlog and everything, got my little dslr on a tripod in my mancave making videos of pringle combos.
I’m guessing I’ve got about fifteen minutes before a cop grabs me and takes me away for being a grown man in pajamas in a parking lot. Then that toddler’s gonna think I’m a bad guy. His world’s gonna shatter and instead of all the little kid cool stuff he’s gonna see nothing but big bad kid muck. Muck muck muck. Should be a pringle flavor. But I’d rather have one that tastes like playdough. God that stuff’s good. Playdough pringles. I’m gonna be famous, I just know it. I gotta know it, otherwise I’m just some weirdo in flyover country brushing pringle dust off his t-shirt.