Do not look down, Fiorella. Do not look down at the driveway as you take your morning stroll. Do not pick up yet another sparkly rock, Fiorella. You already have nineteen boxes of them on the back porch, and Husband is complaining that the driveway had been denuded.
Cool it, babe! There's always room for another stone or two. After all, the boxes aren't taking up much room because you have them neatly stacked. Besides, the rocks are all so pretty--the ones that look like they're covered by white frosting, the ones that sparkle in the morning sunshine, the ones that look like frozen root beer, the ones with stripes of carmine red in them . . . ,
Go away, Bad Angel! I will not pick up any more--ooh, look at that one!