Why don’t you have your DNA tested to see if you have anything in you that you never knew you had in you? I don’t mean a foreign object left after surgery, I mean maybe you’re Hungarian. Wouldn’t that be wild? You could force goulash onto everybody. I’d like to see exactly how my DNA breaks down. Are there nationalities in me that I don’t know about that would explain more about who I am? Or am I really just boringly German and English. I know that I have Czech in me, not the majority, but that’s the one I majorly identify as. Don’t rightly know why. Am I an Italian? I do love making pasta. I don’t think so, but still, it’s a fun mystery until the results come in.
Why don’t you invent a time machine so that I can whizz back a century and visit Le Théâtre du Grand-Guignol in Paris in its prime? This tiny theatrical company has captivated me since I first heard about it. On a minuscule stage, a troupe of actors would put on the most gruesome, bone chilling, and terrifying plays. People would appear to decay, flames would consume flesh, others would be dismembered. Theatrically, of course. Someday I would like to revive this gothic entertainment. What a thrill it’d be! Sadly the theatre closed after the Second World War and the horrible thing lives on only in a few memories.
Why don’t you have your name legally changed? Or just go by a stage name? It’s so much more fun to order your double espresso at Starbucks and say you’re called Nicky or Émile. I’ve done that for years. But I have long been obsessed with one of the names that was considered for me before I was born — Solomon. Isn’t that delicious? Imagine me being called Solomon. It’s so much more elegant and memorable than boring old Benjamin. I don’t know anybody on this earth named Solomon. Someday I’ll be Solomon Nicholas Phillips.
Why don’t you run away? I’ve done it before. It’s a lot of fun now that I’m an adult and have money and resources and a passport. I don’t recommend this for children. That’s just rude. But it’s delightful to disappear in the night and find yourself somewhere new. Last year, I slipped away in the dark and popped back out in Paris. It was such a delightful feeling to know that nobody knew where I was. I want to do it again. I just want to be in Romania. I want to shovel hay. I talk about this too much.
Why don’t you get an absentee ballot and vote early for Hillary Clinton in the comfort of your own home? I like to think that I am a moderate and willing to listen to both sides, but let’s get real, reader, that kind of politics died awhile back. It’s all angry reality shows, and I want to see the Clintons gloating at the Bravo live reunion. I don’t care for your complaints about her emails – -because you don’t care, either. Just admit that. I don’t care that she remains married to Bill or that she wears Ralph Lauren or that she panders to the middle. There’s nothing wrong with any of that. So she has my vote. It’s already delivered. Don’t mess this one up, my American readers.