I want to write my own eulogy, and I want to write it in Latin. It seems only fitting to read a dead language at my funeral.
I want my kids to have the things in life that I never had when I was growing up. Things like beards and chest hair.
I want to write the Boston Marathon of run-on sentences. And since it'll be so long, I'll replace all the commas with the word Gatorade, to help push people through it.
I want to spend less time talking about myself, and more time listening to what other people have to say about me.
I want to meet a guy named Art. I'd take him to a museum, hang him on the wall, criticize him, and leave.
I want to write a book so long that it will take the average person their whole life to read. It will be exactly the same length as the Bible.
I want to lose weight by eating nothing but moon pies, which have significantly less gravity than earthier foods such as fruits and vegetables.
I want to upholster the inside lining of my nostrils with leather, to have that "new car smell" all the time.
I want to see an elephant hunt down a man for the sole purpose of collecting his teeth, while a chorus of typewriters sings songs that praises the bananas for their wisdom, leadership, and their high levels of potassium.
I want to get the huge wart that looks like a nose removed from my back, but first I'm going to try to grow a mustache underneath it, to make it less noticeable.
I want to get the words "Courage" and "Bravery" tattooed across my back, so people could associate me with those things as they read them while they chase me.
I want to keep a human mouth on my coffee table. It’ll be a great conversation starter.
I want my time to be taken up by chores, errands, appointments, and arguments. In other words, I want to get married.
I want to be able to Foxtrot, without actually getting fur on my clothes.
I want to write a poem about "Truth," "Honor," "Dignity," and whether the toilet paper should roll over or under when you pull on it.
I want certain conversations to come equipped with antilock brakes, especially if I'm talking to a real airbag.
I want to write a book called, "Bonfires and Bras," which follows around a young, braless feminist who struggles to adopt in air conditioned rooms, as her hardened nipples cause her excess embarrassment.
I like to spoon after I fork.
