all i want is to sit in the bleachers of wrigley a few times a decade
all i want is to chill out in vegas a few times a year
all i want is really delicious foods to make its way down my gullet a few times a month
and all i want to do is write to you a few times a day.
my hands are on fire. theyre on strike. theyre saying THIS is what arthritius feels like
we arent even gonna spell it right cuz we’re mad at you.
you cant blog and blog and blog for 11 years
and not think of us or your shoulders or your eyes or your mind
cuz Lord knows you dont think of your readers.
so im tying this between shots of rum.
in a perfect world id have a cute little assistant
who was no so secretly in love with me
who’d be dictating this masterpiece to you
and later she would massage my wrists and
but life, ive discovered, is playing through the pain.
building up callouses.
learning to deal with the paparazzi.
deep down im not at all easily pleased.
and neither are all ten of these.