Like any good American child, I dreamed that adulthood would mean living in a house filled with stuff from the SkyMall catalogue. My dog would eat from an elevated dog bowl and play in a yard stalked by a garden yeti. I would offer my guests an all-edge brownie, and perhaps a drink delivered by Roswell, the alien butler. An automatic cereal-dispenser would portion my breakfast. Lighted slippers would guide my way to the bathroom or the refrigerator at night.
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