When I’m old I’ll be a mad potter who creates blobs on my potter’s wheel that explode in the kiln because I made no effort to pound air bubbles out of the clay. I’ll paint the shards anyway. Hundreds of years later, they will reside in a museum, a testament to my genius, undiscovered during my lifetime.

When I’m old I’ll make regular calls to the American Cement Association to complain that the roads are too gray. My frequent calls will launch an Internet frenzy that will lead to requirements for blue, purple, and red roads. I will be known as the Concrete Lady. I will still call the American Cement Association every day out of habit.

When I’m old I’ll call all the people I think should be mated and invite them for coffee. I’ll tell their fortunes using pottery shards. Their fortunes will say they belong together. I’ll give them the shards to remind them of their destiny.

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