Dear Bucket List,
I am ever so blessed and humbled that you deem me a worthy human to send downloads of beautiful story-nuggets-of-glory,* awe inspiring images, and an upswell in fascinations like vegan cooking mastery, herbal healing and local flora and fauna, but you have grown so long that I will now need to live as many years as humanly possible, at least until 135. We all know what that means: I will have to pre-hire someone to pluck my man-beard because by the time I'm that old I'll be too blind to notice it, and I want to be as cute as possible. I will also need to assure my location is in close proximity to bingo halls, ballroom dancing, golf and chic silhouette depends for my incontinence. These are all concepts I am now thinking of thanks to your generosity, and I'm quite excited at the notion of looking like this.
If you wish that I do double or triple the work until I'm 135, please also direct kind-hearted and evolutionary benefactors to me as well.
*Otherwise known as fantastic ideas for stories.
PS: Do know, I write with utter reverence and apologize for use of the term “bucket list.” (I know, it just feels so negative doesn't it?) But everyone KNOWS what a bucket list IS and no one would really know what a passion-nugget-of-greatness or a baby-furry-spargeltarzan, or a verhonepiepeln is, so there it is.