I want to cook something.
I want Sarah's fritatta and Rhee's uber-potatoes.
I want to give everybody here some of the double-chocolate-chip cookie batter I whipped up last night to a pearl sake (and Paso Robles cab) accompaniment.
I want to kiss you.
I want to stumble upon thousands of dollars in a hole in the plaster.
I want plane tickets and a really great, wide-brimmed hat.
I want to go out to play.