Earlier today, I hammered out some paragraphs about New Orleans and The Way Things Are Now. Well, I take it all back. Not only was the post self-indulgent, but it was also unbearably dreary and clichéd: it had all been said before, and better. Thankfully, I was interrupted mid-stream, and when I got back to my desk and a very hot, very big cup of coffee, I’d regained my senses. Hello, delete button.

That’s not to say I’m feeling much better now. Maybe it’s the gray day (I’ve never experienced Seasonal Affective Disorder, but there’s a first time for everything), or maybe it’s the slight but persistent pressure of our upcoming show, or maybe it’s the rut that I’ve fallen into, but the items on my wish list are clearly not being delivered. Yes, they are mere wishes at the moment, but they are on the verge of being needs:

1. I wish I could sleep more than six hours a night.

2. I wish my eldest dog didn’t shed so much.

3. I wish my eldest dog was still able to jump into bed with me.

4. I wish I could get rid of the mouse that’s raiding our kitchen.

5. I wish Lola were still around to startle the mouse, although she probably wouldn’t raise a paw to catch him.

6. I wish I could finish writing and editing the collection of reminiscences I put together for some of my college friends.

7. I wish all of my friends were alive to read it.

8. I wish I could stop eating.

9. I wish someone would pick a fight with me.

10. I wish I could find a tennis partner or sparring partner or someone to aid and abet controlled, sports-related violence.

11. I wish New Orleans wasn’t so lethal.

12. I wish there were an alternative.

13. I wish I could take a real vacation.

14. I wish I knew why my knuckles are still itching.

15. I wish that some people listened more often.

16. I wish I could focus.

17. I wish I could commit.

18. I wish I could stop worrying.

19. I wish people could give me the benefit of the doubt.

20. I wish I could give people the benefit of the doubt.

21. I wish I didn’t sound like the lead-in to a bad commercial for Prozac.

If I were a better napper, I’d go back to bed. Not that I could sleep, but, you know.

P.S. Send help. Or beer. In fact, just send beer.

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