Dear Santa
I wish I could write like Stephen Fry. To lovingly, liltingly flow through words, a caress here, the most delicate of touches there, and paint verbal pictures that make even the most cloacal of matters look like meadows lit by the dew on a crisp halcyon morning. I wish I could write like Wodehouse. To pick pen & p., and charge out to the terrace in a swift walk. One that would make Usian Bolt feel like the old church-going lady you must make cross the road every time you happen to meet on the sidewalk. On one of those days where nature's holy plan seems to involve quite a bit of a nap, and the clouds above seem to yell, "Say it with ink!" Or maybe I could write like Bukowski. It shouldn't be hard, shouldn't take long to write about the assholes who probably couldn't tell the difference between a love gone sour and the rugged, swirling defecation of humanity splattered across a barstool, waiting for another dirty glass of shame. I wish I could fall