I wish I had a sledgehammer. I would smash this table into splinters.
I wish I had a shotgun. I would blast this TV into smithereens.
I wish I had a pair of wings. I would fly above the mountain, right through the clouds and out over the ocean, far away from the shore, until all I could see were blue horizons.
I wish I were crazy. I would spit in everybody’s face. Every single one of them.
I wish there was something wrong with me and I knew what it was. I wouldn’t have to wonder anymore.
I wish I was a dog.
I wish I was a hungry dog.
I wish I was Arnold Schwarzenegger. I wish I was Scarlett Johansson.
I wish I was Stanley Kubrick.
I wish I was twenty years younger. I would spend the next twenty years doing all the things I wish I had done in the last twenty years. People would love me.
I wish I had more friends.
I wish I didn’t have any friends at all.
I wish I didn’t want any friends. I would go for days without talking to anyone.
I wish I was drunk.
I wish I was dying. I would be brave—brave enough to say all the things I want to say.
I wish I was two inches shorter.
I wish I knew what I should be doing. I wish I was a lizard.
I wish I was Jerry Seinfeld.
I wish I was Peyton Manning.
I wish I was in northern California, behind the wheel of a Winnebago, driving up the Pacific Coast Highway.
I wish I was in prison. I would eat when they told me to eat, sleep when they told me to sleep. I would never leave my cell.
I wish I was gay. I wish I was black. I wish I was the future of something.
I wish I took better care of myself. I wish I was in high school.
I wish my nose was smaller.
I wish I was Johnny Depp.
I wish I had a teenage son. I would teach him how to change spark plugs and mow the yard. I would teach him how to masturbate properly.
I wish I hadn’t written that.