A Short Story: The Story Of Dreammercialism

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I am walking down the streets of neon lights and gleaming billboards. A big, pink donut is following me up to the corner of the street, blabbering on about his lemon custard and chocolate topping. I run away. The sparkly billboards dazzle me. I squint, then close my eyes. Someone shoves a flier into my hand. It promises a seventy percent discount for a new haircut, manicure and pedicure, if I make it in the first five customers. I crumple the flier and toss it into a bin nearby. The bin is glittering with red and blue stripes. It 's an advertisement for a sugar-free chewing gum. I scowl and keep walking.
A walking slice of pizza is waving its gloved hand at me, inviting me to the pizza house to try their new calzone with eighty percent discount. If I bring a friend, the walking slice of pizza promises two bottles of soft drinks for free. I hurry away through the forest of billboards. They are square, round, rectangular; they glimmer, they blaze, they glow and sparkle and hurt my eyes. They are offering me the best, the finest, the latest—all that I need for happiness.
I hang my head down and run.
I stumble upon a friend under a striped tent. He 's smiling. He’s come across the best hot-dog stand and offers me a sausage sinking in mayonnaise and mustard.
“Give it a try,” he says. “I 've just found this place. Saw it in my dream.”
I look at the hot-dog in my hand. It’s big and thick and smells of spice. Suddenly, the pink sausage opens its eyes and stares at

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