Made in America
If I were a less sane person I would probably stalk
Zoey Deschanel. After stalking her from nine to five,
I would come back home to my wife and daughter
and tell them about my day. “I stalked Zoey, but I
never saw her,” I’d say. “You’re just not trying hard
enough,” my wife would reply, “don’t give up.” After
glaring at me for a moment my daughter would say,
“Why don’t you just find a real job? No one’s going
to pay you to stalk Zoey Deschanel.” So I’ll tell her
about fame, about the things in this world that aren’t
real and the rain and the empty river in a dream. “I’m
not doing this for money,” I’ll explain, and she’ll turn
away from me and back to her strawberries, pulling
a plump red cone from the blue bowl on the table.