Hypotheticals for the love of redaction, and rhetoricals for the sake of false hopes, and the "If I could's" caked in cliches… If I could fly, I'd be dead.
Why the fuck am I rubbing on a lamp in the first place?! I found this piece of brass and started rubbing it. Why? I always pick up and rub metal things when I find them. I get tetanus often and have a parrot voiced by Gilbert Gottfried.
My hypothetical genii is a sardonic dickhead, made redundant by my acceptance and willingness to play by his rules. Despite his being a figment of my infinite imagination, my hypothetical genii is not only a cunt, he's an accurate metaphor for my willingness to cope with hope i.e. my rhyme and reason affidavit.
My rhetorical attorney is nefarious, and I think it's all hilarious, particularly as it pertains to pardoning my illustriously alliterative rhymes and reasons, as they're clearly wrapped and bundled up in my listless, masochistic blanket on my hotbed of cynicism, and good god I'm anxiously awaiting the comfort of eternity.
My rhetorical attorney didn't add a clause stipulating any variance in my coordination or sight, so my first flight was my last and my other two wishes are effectively nulled.
That's just the preface. I get to start over now… I'm filled with several ounces of joy… only to find that it's dish soap, and I'm dead again.
Then I get a third chance. How many people get a third chance, right? I'm grateful. Filled with everlasting hope… And… I'm born again…
I'm an aborted fetus now. My mortal flesh has been cast into the stem cellular regeneration of an evangelical's left eye. I see only hope now.
Now I'm fully dead again, reenergized by the lack of being attached to a cunt's two-demential version of vision and reassessing life's lessons, observing the soul of what's matter's who's envisioned where's temperature how's entropic why's indecision.
OK. Once more… Fourth time's a charm. My wish is to return to Joy in doing the dishes.
What do you mean no more wishes?