So I know it's ugly and terrible, but just seeing a Calico

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So I know it's ugly and terrible, but just seeing a Calico carbine makes me want it. Makes me want to buy it, discard all else and slowly build my life around its aesthetic. Trade the sedan for something with gull-wing doors and a tape deck. Only wear white suits (without tie) and incandescent club palette shirts beneath. Move somewhere where every drive is illuminated in an orange sunset and the neon hedonism and existential emptiness of 1980's Miami. Where one's perspective of the world is chronically unclear, shrouded in the noise and shitty palette of a VCR with bad tracking and a text message costs $25 to send from a phone the size of one's forearm. But it's okay. Because as you step out of the car, your badge and shoulder holster glinting a veneer brown in the Florida dusk and walk towards the slow synthetic embrace of the ambient music that echoes through an almost-empty mall, through brownish tint of your Ray-Bans and a cocaine haze, you can see it. You made it. This is the American Dream.