I want to be abducted by extraterrestrials in the middle of a bad dream.
I want large crowds to cheer at the sight of my naked body.
I want a thrilling auction of otherworldly goods
and unanimous agreement that I’m the big prize.
I want to be purchased by a sad-eyed extraterrestrial yearning for companionship
— who is too socially awkward to put herself back out there,
but quite the conversationalist once you get to know her,
especially after we realize that we share an affinity for passive-aggressive
sarcasm and travel.
I want this to be my life.
I want to be doted on: to be rewarded alien cookies for simple tasks
like rolling over or sitting. I will wow her with my sitting
until she acquires a few plundered Earth books from an oddity shop
and begins demanding I build her a car, create electricity,
and knit her oversized sweaters.
The look of disappointment on her face will be palpable. “What do you mean,
you can’t build me a coffee table?” she’ll moan, pointing to a faded Ikea
She will realize there are better humans out there. She will begin
to shake me: “What’s wrong with you? . . . Up!
Wake up, you’re going to be late for work.”
I’ll open my eyes and see my girlfriend standing sadly, half-dressed.
Inspired by Jay Winston Ritchie’s
“I Want to Die in a Horrible Plane Crash in Remote East Africa”