I want to experience baroque mediocrity.  I want to put my thumbs on your eyes.  I want to be a gentle soul.  I want to cut an onion while telling jokes.  I want to cry in a real way.  I want to activate my tear ducts while someone pretends to laugh at me.  I want someone to pretend to laugh at me crying until they actually start to laugh.  I want to use the combination of tears and laughter to create a lubricant for the grinding motion of talking to strangers.  I want to somersault in the ocean.  I want to take a casting of my imaginary womb.  I want to imagine I have every possible combination of physiological extremities, appendages, physical affects, and emergent structures of possible human anatomies.  I want you to duct tape me to the ground with my mouth held open, pick up a broom, and sweep the floor into my mouth.  I want my urethra to sentiently open up like a vaginal canal and form a wet suction with your toes.  I want to lose control of all of my aforementioned condensed extremities etc.  I want to swim in a glass bottom boat.  I want to kneel down upon your shoulders, pinning you face up, gripping your head tightly, staring into your eyes, singing List do Cara, very loudly at double tempo http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TtvUMAIDxz0 (unaccompanied [of course]).  I want to load a fired gun into a crowd.  I want to say that I want to internet-order the ingredients necessary to wage biochemical warfare on a defenseless local population.  I want to burn a hole though the back of my calf muscle with a hot poker, and insert a large bronze ring through the newly formed opening.  I want to ride on an elephant.  I want a computer to illustrate my “field of perception” in a continuously recorded live feed.  I want to create a suppository drug shaped like a tiny blue tea kettle.  I want to lOOOOOOOOOOOOOK at words in the way that I want to digest a meal.  I want my tastebuds to each, individually, granulate and fall from my tongue, leaving behind a yellow and red swirled lever, which, when pulled, causes my eyes to roll back into my head, my scalp to open up like a whirlpool, my skull to open like the solution to a 3D puzzle (Cronenberg), my shoes to torpedo off of my feet exploding in mid air with a multi-colored full scaled pyrotechnic depiction of Caravaggio’s <i>Judith Beheading Holophernes<i> utilizing the night sky as his signature black ground, my toes to revolt against my ankles, then shins, then knees, then thighs, then gutting out my genetalia, and sacrificing it(them/her/him) to the now miniature molten volcano that has emerged from my open skull, my eyebrows to crawl from my face to sashay into the broad brushstrokes of a murky brown sunset flushed down the porthole of a cracking sunbeam at breaking dawn, my bellybutton to regenerate my umbilical cord; extending outward through streets, sewers, parks, forests, and oceans to find the whereabouts of my now post menopausal mother, jettison up into her vagina, generate a slippery placenta in her uterus, and begin to feed from the nutrients of her daily diet, my anus to prolapse into a bulbous inflating bag of flesh, which lifts my entire body up into the air higher, and higher, and higher, and higher, and higher, and higher, out of the Earth’s atmosphere, and into the Sun where what is left of my body will sizzle on some intergalactic griddle, and be consumed for breakfast by a bees-knees alien with stylish shades.  I want to fade away slowly when I exit a room.  I want to fade away slower and slower and slower and slower and slower and slower and slower and slower and slower again & (2 any color is oKaY).