It’s no secret I want to be special.

Stand out from the crowd. Be bowed to on a reputation that proceeds me.

I want to be the A-#1 motherfucker. Feared and loved and revered and honored.

I want to matter to everyone and see the evidence that I matter in everyone’s eyes.

I want everyone’s lives to stop when I show up at the restaurant to get the take out.

I want to be heard and listened to; felt and understood; wanted and desired.

I want to be kissed when I come in the door.

I want to be cared for by an eternal flame of love that never lets me go.

I want to win at Blackjack often enough to make me feel I know what I am doing AND that the universe makes my number come up as if it was a giant slot machine tuned to me.

I want it all to go my way.

I want to be a God who is a man and a man who is God.

Yup, I want all that, all the time.

Because I’m grasping and grabbing and clinging and wrapping my hands around everything and anything that I can just to prove I’m more than a firefly blinking in a field on a warm midwestern night before flying across the dirt road and having it all end on the windshield of a pass truck.

Because I don’t want to believe I’m just one of an infinite number of miracles on a rock-sphere in a minor star system on the edge of a galaxy in a universe where everything is rushing away from everything.