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.
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