I feel greedy whenever I look at my new(er) car. Its deep green paint wasn't available in the late 70's nor '91, so the car sits, polished and rustless, like a diamond in a rough driveway previously cursed with anachronisms.
There is more than a fragment of my brain that craves for everything to be so pretty. Wood floors that gleam in the sunshine, tile in the bathroom that looks like tile -- not because I took extra care in peeling off the self-adhesive protection and then arranging each of the cheapest nice-looking linoleum squares -- but because the ceramic boasts its realness from between the lines of mortar with an awesomely sparkling shine.
I want bookcases instead of book piles, bills paid instead of bills due, waking up chipper rather than these mornings full of groans.
I would sell a part of my liver, but would I sell my soul?