Really? A robot?

From time to time I'll go back and look over some past writing I've done. I have a file that is nothing but single paragraphs, just the start of a story, and reading over them a few years after the fact is kind of funny because I have no idea where they came from. If I used a prompt I always put that at the top of the page but there are some that have nothing which means they came to me by way of a Muse. A really inept Muse who stays for like half a page and then flits off to get a pedicure with the other Muses.

I wrote this one about a robot who does nothing but walk. How did I end up writing about a robot? I don't even like robots. They kind of scare me.

Or the one about a man trying to sell a pair of wool socks he claims were worn by Hemingway when he wrote A Farewell to Arms. This one had me rolling. I like the guy.

There's the one about a mother of seven grown sons who all still live at home and who, she believes, will never find wives who will love them the way she does. It's a comedy. And I'm telling you I can see all seven sons like they're standing in front of me. One of them is named Seth.

I wrote about one of my very first memories, when I was 2 and saw a tree stump entirely covered in ladybugs. The stump looked like it was wiggling.

There's the story about a bike race that goes across the state of Illinois and a woman who sells meat pies at one of their stops.

I wrote about a man who got to choose either to go to Rome or go into space and he chose space because he loved astronaut ice cream when he was a kid but then realizes that gelato is better and was regretting his choice. I was way more descriptive than I normally am in this one and I questioned whether or not I even wrote it.

Which one do you think I should flesh out? Don't say the robot one because I have no idea where I was even going with it.