If I could have anything I wanted, it wouldn’t be a bunch of stuff on sale at half-price, shiny toys, or expensive cliche` vacations. The inner workings of my mind operate on a much different level. I want material—anything that will spark my imagination. My perfect vacation wouldn’t be a luxury cruise, it would be a week with:
A special force unit/black op team. Not for the classified, political, or shooty bloody stuff, but more for the camaraderie, the bond, the lifestyle, mindset, lingo, and point of view. It would be good exercise, too, and oh! the stories they could tell! Of course, this couldn’t be in some base or other civilized structure. I want the real deal! The field! I’m talking wearing soap on the way in and flies on the way out, training and wargames, stories of reckless insanity around a campfire, tasteless MREs, dune buggies, mosquito repellant, shovels.
A ghost. I would love to see our world from a totally different perspective as well as view people without their masks on. What better way than to move freely between this dimension and the hereafter wearing nothing but a shimmer? My problem would be the temptations. I can see it now: Some person has no idea I’m standing there and I have to make a choice—mischievous poltergeist or a guiding light. Hmm! Eenie, meenie, miney, BOO! I will say this, I hope they have books in the hereafter, because I’ll be busy when I get there—with or without the tour.
A warlord. Yuck! Are you serious, D.C.? Yep. Just so I could get into his head, decipher his distorted thinking and try to make sense out of it. What motivates a person to actively defy civilization, absorb power, and turn into a mindless politi . . . er, criminal. Is there any happiness in that tiny heart, any capacity to love, or true pleasure to be found in drawing forth misery from the innocent? Or does he exist in a cold, dark, lonely void in a desperate search for some nameless thing to fill the chasm? This inquiring mind wants to know.
A spy. How cool would that be? I’ve been told that the life of a spy is NOTHING like we see in the movies and I agree—James Bond and Mission Impossible do have the slight flavor of Hollywood. I don’t mean gadget watches with scaffolding hooks and emergency laser beams, and I’m also not talking about boring moles who work for years to reach an inner circle just to plant a single bug only to get whacked by the agency because he knew too much and developed a guilty conscious. Not him. I’m talking about the CIA airplane to nowhere with a crew of nobody taking a plane full of nothing to a place that doesn’t exist. THAT spy!
Ninja assassins. OMG! I could so totally use that! Throwing stars and, oh! some insane housewife tries to take the last box of cereal. I’d be like waaaaaaaaaaa yah!
A comedian. Brian Regan, Bill Engvall, or Jeff Foxworthy—any one of those. What fun!
Violinist David Garrett. I could listen to that all day long.
My mind is whirring now!
Tibetan monks, or, um … under the sea with a mermaid (the tail would take some getting used to), or a week in the company of a genie (preferably out of the bottle), on a submarine. ooh! with the gods on Mount Olympus. I could steal Cupid’s arrow …