What Will NY152 Say Today, I Wonder?

On the same note as a Tom-Hanks-Type-Post in which he begins by saying, "Brinkley is my dog," I might begin by saying: Isaac is my kid. He likes to take apart model cars and I prefer to buy them for him. Although he has not nor will ever be offered a tryout on the Mets farm team in New York, he would ultimately prefer to stay with me so that he could spend fifteen hours a day pretending to drive an immobile riding mower (or the car), painting invisible lines on the walls with the set of paint brushes I bought him, drawing real lines on the walls with the crayons I should not have bought him, and reading my books because apparently his aren't interesting enough. His latest bit is to mimic me while I use lotion: he sits down beside me, rolls up his pants, and rubs his legs in a circular motion. He dislikes having dirty hands, says "mow mow" in a high-pitched falsetto whenever I mention Faust, and likes sleeping in the corner of the bedroom, on the floor between the bed and the wall (he does have a bed; he prefers not to use it). Also, I can tell he is much, much smarter than he lets on by the occasional comments he makes (and I say occasional because in general he refrains from talking). It makes me want to buy school supplies.

I would send you a newly sharpened bouquet of of pencils if I knew your name and address. . .