Why don't I have a car again?

I don't have a car because . . . because . . . because . . .
because I live downtown.
It's true, it's morning, I'm waking up, there's Hammering Man; hi,
Hammering Man! There's the flower shop and I can smell the coffee
brewing. And gasoline. And lilies and rununculus. For which you do not
need an inoculation. Slow down, Hammering Man! You're making me dizzy.

I wish I smoked. To eliminate any possible amount of free time.
Hammering Man, your museum stinks. First of all, I need to speak with
you about the concept of a "suggested donation." I didn't go there for
five years because they had nothing but pots. Show after show of pots.
That's what Hammering Man's up to, you know. He's making a great big
pot. Bet ya.

I still don't have a car. Nope. Parking spaces now cost more than my
first apartment. I have a skirt that costs more than my first
apartment. I assume all objects will continue to shrink in size and
importance. Come to think of it, so did my first apartment.

We all find coffee every morning like little baby sea turtles find the
sea. We hatch out of our shells, yawn and stretch, and sprint like mad
for home while sea birds swoop and peck us off one by one as our tiny
flippers churn the sand in swirls around us. Only a few will make it.
And it's an ecological nightmare, a tragedy, and someone must do
something. We are all responsible.

Ok. Don't try to decide; just point and mumble and they'll give you
something. Italiano, Americano, Soy - whatever they say, just nod. Any
other response halts the process. Macchiato. I don't know what that is
except the soccer boy in seventh grade with feathered hair and puka
shells. And today he's so famous they've named coffee after him. Like I
ever stood a chance.

If I stand here on the corner, a car with a feather-headed boy will
come and drive me to Bellevue. I am not meant for the bus this day. Oh
young man, man of the downy scalp, sweet man, have you been told you
resemble the Hammering Man? But none of it matters: let us away!

Not to Bellevue, though, no. Screw work! Let's go to Paris, to 1979, oh
no! To the beach, yes! Let's go... let's go... let's go shopping! But
you're a musician, and you can't take me shopping. That's ok,
sweetheart, I am of course above materialism. Well, maybe I'm
materialistic a little, but I am modern and can fetch my own trinkets.
Keep your car, you silly man.

What just happened?

Maybe I will get a car, or maybe a scooter. Can I take a scooter on the
520 bridge? With a name like "scooter"? Why don't I just drive a Big
Wheel to work? Can I drive the scooter wearing a skirt? Heels? It's
designed by Italians; of course I can wear heels. Maybe it would be
practical after all. It has to be practical. Because I am nothing if
not that.