Veruca Salt

Here is what I want.

I want the sky to darken up in an eerie, Independence Day alien ship about to blow up the White House way. I want hail as big as SmartCars to fall from the sky. I want lightning to fork the sky like an overstuffed silverware drawer. I want to have to wade home through lake-sized puddles. I want the temperature to drop twenty degrees, the dew point to fall, and a night where I can sleep under my blanket.

I want a damn huge Frappachino. With whipped cream and chocolate syrup. Not a diet one, either. Full-fat me, barista!

I want to spend the last Sacagewea dollar the CharlieTicket booth gave me in change for a 5 at North Station last night on a scratch ticket and win $200,000 (after taxes) so I don't have to worry about my loans and credit cards and can begin my life as a globe-trotting yuppie in earnest.

I want good pad thai.

I want all that stupid old shit like letters and soda. Letters and soda.

I want to go home.

No. I want to go to the beach.

I want all of J. Crew's fall line (including these hot boots) delivered to my apartment. Gratis.

I want a milkshake.

I want the Boob Dress in every color.

I want the hot shoes I saw at Marshall's last week. Peep toe!

I want to be motivated to write the book I want to write.

I want a nice guy at a bar to buy me a drink.

I want the nice guy's nice friends at the bar to buy my friends drinks.

I want Tim Gunn to come and read me a bedtime story.

I want to be anything but here, feeling any way but this stuck-in-the-mud way. I don't care how. I want it now.