The Countdown

Three more days until my list of requests becomes reality. I'm a little afraid that my wishes will be altered in some way - they will come true, but not in the way I intended. Kind of like in the book/movie Pet Cemetery where things that were once living can be buried and brought back to life, but they come back slightly altered, an evil form of the being. Because to be completely honest, Plan B.'s car didn't "spontaneously combust." The engine just caught on fire because it's a beat-up, piece-of-shit Bronco. So, I'm guessing that Brad Pitt will indeed show up at my door, but it will be Brad "The Salesman" Pitt wanting me to buy 14 magazine subscriptions so that he can go on the annual, all expenses paid, salesdork convention/dream vacation to Europe. His great sales pitch will be "Because haven't you always wanted to meet Brad Pitt? Well, here I am!" with the cheesiest grin and a zit protruding from his nose the size of the European country he'll be drinking sangria in, while I'm wasting away in the Arizona heat waiting for the real Brad Pitt to show up at my door.