The Fredösphere

My darling, 5-year-old Maharincess is learning to read and write, and naturally revels in her growing mastery.  I found this piece art she made, and wondered at the mysterious, yet probably profound message upon it:

Yes, rosepist.  I haven't probed her mind to learn what rosepist means, not wanting to embarrass her.  I will leave that job for others.  In fact, I can imagine a time, many years in the future, when my daughter has come to the end of her life.  She will be filthy rich.  She will be utterly isolated, completely estranged from all her friends and family members. She will be known as "Citizen Maharincess."  She will be ensconced in a sprawling mansion with a name like "Physical," or "Grease," or perhaps it will be named after yet another one of Olivia Newton John's albums.  Just before her tragic death, a nurse will overhear her whisper one last, ambiguous word:

R O S E P I S T

and an army of journalists will be dispatched on a vain mission to learn the meaning of her final utterance.

Labels: fun