I wish... for a bite-sized brownstone in Park Slope, nestled between French bakeries overflowing with roller-skate sized eclairs and huge bone white mugs of cafe au lait and super-hero supply stores boasting capes and goggles and Batmobiles disguised as bikes. I wish for gardening stores within walking distance named after old black and white movies and cafes painted lipstick red that serve coffee and tea to artists and poets and everymen alike - for San Francisco-esque streets that dip down so sharp that they make bike rides turn into roller-coasters and a roadmap of the world's cuisines nestled in one single block. I wish for lazy days and hazy nights spent in this glorious whipped cream-topped slice of Brooklyn and I want to live, eat, and breathe within its boundary lines.
I wish... whistling was mandatory for anyone in a particularly good mood. Something about coming upon someone whistling just cheers me up automatically, especially when they seem so enthralled with doing it. Plus, almost all upbeat songs include whistling - take Perry Como's Magic Moments, for example. I'm telling you, whistling should be a sport!
I wish... for horror flicks and swingin' chicks.
In a week of hand-holding, heart-shaped confetti, and teenaged boys riding their bikes through the street with whole bouquets of roses balanced on the handlebars, what do you wish for, sugarplum bunnies?