God. I really hate Sharon. Everyday she waltzes out of that house, purse and poodle in tow, and sings.
The spontaneous drums bang, clash and rattle about as Sharon humps a lamppost. The swinging and jiving, asking us to tell her about the stars or grass. She twirls around a man in a suit who looks way to happy in this situation, doesn't he have a meeting or something, wait, why is he dropping his suitcase?
Ah, he's in this too?
You know, with that kinda voice I'm surprised the porker is even wearing a suit. Like, he's good. Man's hitting serious notes. Sharon's frilly red hair bangs about as they jump about, jazz hands and all. The balding, exasperated man continues hitting notes like a professional singer hits octaves.
She hops over a painter and slides across a taxi cab. Why are these people so happy? Jesus, she left a streak on the wax! The painter and taxi cab driver join her. Her next target is the fountain, oh thank god there's a cop. One of Sunnyville's finest here to stop this madness. He better put her under lock and key for like public drunkenness. I mean she's obviously distrubing the peace at the very least. Oh look, she's hopping onto the fountain...
Why do I even live here?
Come to think of it, I think the only reason our crime rate is so low is because the robbers insist on singing during their getaway. I mean, I just want to read my newspaper on how every stock that isn't related to song has plummeted for the twentieth millionth time.
Wait, wait, wait... is she mugging that man? Like, she's got a knife... and he's joining her. Ah, thought we had some normalcy there.
Oh God, she's coming this way.
She twips and swirls around the road, barely missing the passing traffic who don't honk their horns or yell at her, because I mean, why would they right? She does a cartwheel into the bench I'm sitting in.
"YOU! Stranger! Can you tell me of the starlight in the air?"
"Stranger? Sharon we went to High School together."
"Is it as dreamy and as lush as a pear?"
"Have you seriously never seen a night sky before?"
"Will I ever know? Will we ever know?"
"I don't think Rob is really that into you... I mean..."
"Will I ever know if he likes me or not?"
"I just told you."
"Tell me! Tell me! How will I ever know?"
"Like read his body language or something, or you know don't bother him if he has reciprocated."
"Thank you stranger! I think I will call him!"
"Uh, What?"
"Toodeloo!"
"I never said that."
The painter, the taxi driver, the businessman, her poodle, the mugging victim, they all stride off down the street with placid smiles on their faces. Singing and dancing asking me to tell them about the wonders of the world.
I think I finally need to find a real estate agent.