Welcome to my gallery. You may call it a hallway, a kitchen, a bathroom threshold—but I call it The Grand Speedway of Order. Every vehicle in this household, from Lightning McQueen to the rogue Duplo dump truck, has a destiny. And that destiny is to be lined up with precision, color harmony, and emotional intensity that only a three-year-old visionary can provide.

This is not chaos. This is installation art.

Each morning, I rise with purpose. I scan the terrain: hardwood, tile, carpet. I choose my canvas. Then I begin. First, the red cars—because red is fast, and fast goes first. Then the blues, greens, and yellows, arranged not by size, but by vibe. The fire truck? He’s a leader. He goes near the door. The tiny purple scooter? She’s shy. She hides behind the ottoman. I don’t make the rules—I feel them.

Placement is everything. Wheels must face forward. No rogue angles. No emotional zig-zags. If a vehicle is turned even slightly, I will stop everything (including dinner, bedtime, or a full-blown meltdown) to correct it. I am the conductor of this vehicular symphony. I will not be rushed.

Sometimes, I allow Puppy Dog (aka my squishy toy) to supervise. He nods approvingly. Mom tries to walk through the lineup and I say, “No, that’s the raceway.” Dad tries to move a tractor and I whisper, “You’ll regret that.” They don’t understand the stakes.

This is not just play. This is strategy. If the cars are lined up correctly, the day will go well. If they are misaligned, the universe tilts. You think I’m dramatic? I’m three. Drama is my cardio.

Color coordination is sacred. I once spent 45 minutes finding the exact shade of orange to match the construction truck. I skipped snack time. That’s how serious I am. I’ve rejected vehicles for being “too shiny” or “not emotionally ready.” I’ve held interviews. I’ve cried over a misplaced bulldozer. This is art.

And when the lineup is complete—when the cars stretch from the front door to the fridge, when the symmetry sings and the colors hum—I stand back. I nod. I whisper, “Vroom.” And I know… I have done something great.

Mom calls it “a tripping hazard.” Dad calls it “a lawsuit waiting to happen.” I call it legacy.

KA-CHOW and goodbye.