I want …

I want Curtis Stone to come to my house to cook me dinner.  I want to be innocently (and ignorantly) roaming the aisles at some grocery store and have him stride up to me and offer to cook me a meal. 

Something amazing, which I could not make myself (which is basically everything, since I am a shitty cook).  *And then he can move in and service me in a variety of domestic ways.

I want a pool in my back yard.  Preferably something with a shield of some sort so I don’t startle the neighbors with my nakedness and/or invite the perverty old  guys to watch me sun bathe (just like they watch me do anything and everything when I’m outside.)

I want a book deal.  I may or may not have the attention span to write any books, but I want the book advance money to sit around and write whatever makes me feel happy, while still getting paid.

I want a domestic servant who will clean my house.  Actually, I want a maid/carpenter/plumber/ nanny/ hairdresser/ accountant/ lawyer/ masseuse.  Immediately.  Preferably a hot one. 

I want the ability to teleport to any location at any time.  I should be able to touch the people I want to come with me, and then we all go to New Zealand or Croatia or Hawai’i or Fiji or New York City.  (I don’t think this is asking too much.)

I want a redo button for my life.  Like, “oops!  That was stupid!” and then I rewind and do that bit over.  Or an editing tool where I can go in and get rid of the pesky bits that piss me off. 

I want Indian food right now.  (Where is that bastard Curtis Stone when you need him?!)

I want a Sleep Number bed.  I’ve never actually been on one, but the commercials told me that’s what I want, and I believe them.

I want to have the body I had at 22, and the wisdom I have now.  Again, I don’t think that’s asking too much.  Why do people learn and grow intellectually, but disintegrate physically?!  What a crock of shit.

I want sand in my toes on a daily basis.  And I don’t mean playground sand; I mean Richard Branson’s private island sand. 

I want to be friends with cool, eccentric people like Fran Leibowitz and Woody Allen and Johnny Depp and Clint Eastwood and Eddie Vedder and Sean Penn and Guillermo del Toro.

I want to be friends with cool, eccentric dead people like Jim Morrison and Hunter S Thompson and George Orwell and Jesus (?) and Friedrich Nietzsche and Simone de Beauvoir and William S Burroughs.

I want to write a screenplay that wins an Academy Award, even though I haven’t the slightest idea how to do it and don’t care enough to find out.

I want all food to be equally nutrient.  I want to eat whatever I want.  All the time.  I want to eat seven candy bars, and have it not make me puke.  I want to drink two bottles of wine without losing consciousness.  I want to eat out at restaurants every other day, and I want a driver to take me there so I can have cocktails and not get arrested on the way home.

I want some semblance of financial security.  You know what?  Fuck that.  I want to be obscenely rich and give half away to charities that impress me.  Like the one that gives away ducks.

I want to bitch slap a Somali pirate.  (Don’t ask questions…I’m on a roll.)

I want a PhD without all the hassle. 

I want my children to grow up to be good human beings, even though society actively tries to make them assholes every day.

I want to move to California and be assured that it will not fall into the Pacific Ocean while I’m there.

I want all my cheese slices proportionate to my Triscuits.

I want this one girl I really hate to win the lottery and then realize she lost the ticket.  (Bitch)

I want … maybe just to sleep through the night tonight.   That would be a good start on the things I want from this life.