I want to eat peanut butter, just peanut butter. I want to have a straight eight-hour sleep, not three, four, or five. I want to ride a tapir, not a tricycle, a jeepney, or a train. I want to stay home for a whole day and finish everything in my reading list. I want to swim some more lapses. I want my mother’s laswa soaking in hot Dinorado rice. I want to go to Pampanga and be with my sister, I miss her doting kindness. I want to ride a plane, now. I want to see a giraffe kicking a hyena in the face. I want to fill this page with non-sense. I want to splatter Jollibee spaghetti on the first person I meet wearing white. I want to insert my wet middle finger in the electric outlet behind me. I want to shout at the people living in the room facing ours and tell them how gay the color of their curtains is. I want to glutton on a gallon of stale vanilla ice cream. I want to drink the water from tap downstairs and wait if I contract cholera or die from typhoid. I want to seal the room shut, turn off the air-con and find out how long it will take before my lungs collapse because of asphyxia. I want to have a fishbowl, without a fish, because I can’t have a fish. I want to have a birdcage, just the birdcage, I cannot have a bird inside. But if I can, I want to have a myna and teach it how to eloquently blurt all the expletives I know.
I want to take a shower. I want to eat, I am hungry. I want to wash all my dirty pants by hand. I want to confess to the owner of the stray wi-fi signal named Belkin_e0d37a that I am having a free ride and that I am willing to pay him for the time I, unintentionally, used his signal to publish several of the posts here. I want to delete my Facebook account. I want to apologize to my readers for me having written this far and for them having read this extent.
I want to extract all my molar teeth using a pair of pliers. I want to shout at the top of my lungs that I am . I want to think that I am being read. I want to think that what I have to say matters. I want to.
I want to simply continue writing this. I want to clean the house. I want to water the plant I have always wanted to have, but never had. I want to see my vibrantly verdant bougainvillea (it would have been this species) crawl and colonize the house until the living room resembles like a Peruvian sarcophagus. I want to know why I am entertaining these thoughts and have mustered enough bitter gall to publish them.
I want to think that by writing these things I want but cannot have or do I am finally acknowledging that some things go nowhere. And that other things, the nonsensical ones especially, get to be written down here.