Like Cleopatra? Marie Antoinette? Beyonce? Beyonce can have whatever she wants, right? She’s had to have made a few bold requests. (Surrogate mom, anyone?)
If I could have whatever I want…
I would write on the wall, any wall, whenever I want. Maybe it’s a thought. Or something funny. Or a grocery list. Maybe it’s just my name with a drawing of a pig. I don’t know, whatever I want, and it wouldn’t be a big deal.
I’d never drive ever again. And my driver just happens to be my therapist. Horrendous traffic to Santa Monica? More like an enlightening hour of self-actualization and dream analysis!
I would have my very own ferris wheel. It’s where I would sit to center myself. “Where’s Char? Has she chosen a gown for the gala yet?” “Not yet, she’s been in the wheel for two hours.”
I wanna be carried away on a stretcher whenever I get sad.
I want a professional photographer when something makes me happy.
I wanna ride Space Mountain whenever I get mad.
I wanna go to a rave whenever I’m worried.
Whatever I want.
“Scramble the eggs. All six dozen of them!” I’ll tell my chef.
“She only talks about her feelings through email,” my assistant will tell my men.
“She requires that her stuffed animals be tucked in,” my maid will never, ever, say to the newspapers.
“I am taking a leave of absence because I have fallen in love!” I will tell my employers.
“I am taking a leave of absence because I have fallen out of love!” I will tell the press.
Let me DJ the party.
Let me choose the dessert.
I will tell you immediately when I am unhappy. I won’t have to fake anything. I’m allowed to cry through brunch, I don’t care about your new haircut, I took too many Xanax yesterday and I woke up wearing a glow bracelet. I want to talk about the lack of emotional support in my Catholic childhood.
I don’t think I need a reason to get my face painted like a tiger.
I can leave whenever I want to. I don’t have to listen to this boring conversation. I don’t have to sit through this play. I don’t have to be at this birthday party. Maybe it’s too hot today, I don’t have to be here. Call my private jet. Let’s go to Copenhagen.
“Where’s Char?” they’ll all ask.
“She left to get a mani pedi,” or
“She left to make an avocado sandwich,” or
“She’s been in the wheel for two hours.”
I wanna wear a seatbelt at the dinner table because it’s comfortable.
Give me my hot tea already at a manageable temperature.
Will you shape my eyebrows for me?
And when I die, you all will party. “This is what she wanted!” you’ll scream to your friends while you’re rolling on MDMA and getting your face painted like a tiger.
“SHE DIED DOING WHAT SHE LOVED: WANTING TO DIE” reads my tombstone.
“She was crazy,” you’ll all say, “but she had everything she wanted.”
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