In between day dreams of Tina Fey inviting me to lunch to tell me how perfectly dry my humor is and begging me to write for 30 Rock and Chelsea Handler whisking me away to Cabo for one of her infamous vodka soaked play-cations, what I aspire to most is to be is left the fuck alone.
Alone to shit whilst a toddler says she wants to watch me go poopy. Alone to pee without a husband who needs me to proof read an e-mail and bringing me a laptop mid-stream or a tween coming in to ask me 'whatcha doin?'
No, Discover, I don't care that my bill is past due and no, I don't want to pay it.
No, PTA President, I don't want to volunteer at the cake walk or book fair.
No, telemarketer, I don't want to buy a timeshare in Haiti.
No, Facebook freak, I do not want to accept your Farmville invitation.
No, saleslady, I don't want you to a start dressing room for me.
No, friend of a friend, I don't want to have a Mary Kay party!
I realize I may eventually live like a lonesome shut in with five cats and an imaginary soccer ball friend named Paco. Dear, wonderful Paco who lets me pee in private and does not sass talk me.
But I will at long last be alone to bask in my very own pit of glorious solitude.