Why yes, I do have a new French press at home. Why do you ask?
As I was walking to Davis Square this morning listening to "Jóga," a thought came entirely unbidden. My normally hypercritical internal voice silenced for a moment, and another very quietly said, "My soul sings with a woman's voice." I am perfectly ok with this.
Shortly thereafter, I found a rock that looked like a toe:
I also have a new French press at home! The last one had a rather disappointing experience involving sweeping gestures, gravity, and the floor.
Your rock is full of possibilities. With a little green polish, it could be a movie star. Or it could be an actual fossilized toe from Homo habilis. Or it could be a trillion dollar lawsuit, should it turn up in a bowl of chili or something.
I grew very tired of not being able to make my own coffee. It is delicious and makes my morning seem luxurious. Gravity, on the other hand, occasionally sucks.
Initially, I wondered what Greek marble might have lost it, but it was far too crude.
Alas, my French Press is not new, but I love it because there are no hidden crevices for ants to crawl into.
And your rock looks more like a finger to me, but I come from a family of people with tiny toes. You could always turn it into a rather disturbing keychain.
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