Instead, I’m going to spend all my money on comfort food.
I’m hotter than a fucking Hot Pocket.
Dear Universe,
please send me off into the sunset with a Channing Tatum lookalike and a bag of Fritos that never gets empty.
I am grateful for gladiators.
I’m not defined by my inability to create and maintain meaningful relationships.
It’s okay that my moral compass only points in one direction.
Even if it’s the wrong one.
I’m no longer going to gossip and, instead, will keep my mouth shut like I’ve got lockjaw.
I am grateful for Charades.
I forgive my mother.
70% of the time.
I’m no longer fretting over my Uber rating. They won’t pick me up anymore, anyway.
I am grateful for Riverdance.
I’m trying harder to control my fucking office rage.
I’m not ashamed by my tentacle fetish.
I’m continuing to remain cynically optimistic.
I am grateful for a plethora of pinatas.
Dear Universe,
please send me more dreams narrated by Tom Hiddleston and featuring me in the center of Chris Hemsworth, Ryan Gosling, Jason Momoa, Jake Gyllenhaal and Gerard Butler.
I’m not ashamed by my tinfoil hat because it protects me from mind control perpetuated by the government and extra-fucking-terrestrials.
I’m ditching my fuck-me boots for some ask-me-out-nicely fuck-me boots.
I am grateful for Bengay.
I accept the fact that I’m everyone’s backup bestie.
And, no, being second on everyone’s list doesn’t sting. At all.
I’m no longer illegally downloading music. Dammit.
I’m happily blessed from behind.
I am grateful for nudist colonies.
I’m no longer going to play “the floor is lava” at Target and, instead, will act my age.
Just this once.
There’s nothing wrong with bleaching my asshole.
I am grateful for Walgreens.
I’m no longer going to mooch and, instead, I intend to get a fucking job.
Or, at least, that’s what I’m telling my parents.
Romance novels are real literature.
Anyone who says otherwise can fuck right off.
Dear Universe,
please bring me a lumbersexual (those who are outwardly rugged while still maintaining a trimmed beard).
I’m readjusting my Resting Murder Face.
I am grateful for alcohol over 120 proof.
I’m no longer bemoaning the fact that I didn’t invent Fidget Spinners, the Flowbee, Pillow Pets, The Snuggie, or Doggles.
Pulling out is not a form of birth control.
And besides, it’s messy.
I’m no longer saying the word ‘Merica because it’s just fucking dumb.
I’m not ashamed of my tramp stamp.
It’s okay to hate the Cash Me Outside girl. How bow dah?
I’m grateful for buoyancy.
I’m no longer interested in what the Kardashians are doing.
Okay, that’s a complete lie.
Dear Universe, please send me a Henry Cavill lookalike who likes to bake.
I accept the fact that I have uncontrollable gas.
Just because I’m sprouting hairs out of my chin doesn’t mean I have to join the circus.
I’m no longer living a life of indescribable sadness.
I am grateful for any and all stimulants.
Every cell in my body vibrates with badassism.
I’m no longer blaming my coworkers.
But that doesn’t meant I have to like them.
“Awesome” begins AND fucking ends with me.
I am grateful for Disney princesses.
Despite the consensus, I know I’m not that terrible at handjobs.
I refuse to surrender to my self-loathing.
I’m lightening the fuck up.
If you don’t believe me, fuck off.
I, too, can be saved.
Just not in a religious way.
Dear Universe,
please send me three sets of crazy hot male twins.
I am grateful for The Oregon Trail…but not dysentery.
I forgive myself for 65% of what I did in the alley.
I’m no longer allowing anyone to marginalize me.
Unless it’s under the sheets.
I am grateful for my clitoris.
I’m no longer fixated on what it would be
like to have a penis.
Freud be damned.
I accept my hemorrhoids.
I am grateful for my right hand.
I’m no longer plotting the death of all hipsters. Fuck it, yes I am.
I’m not my intimacy problems.
I’m no longer pretending extreme offense.
Now it’s all real.
I am grateful for Plutonium.
Even though I don’t know what it is.
Just like Miley, I’m coming in here like a fucking wrecking ball.
I’m just not really sure how to get back out again.
Dear Universe,
please send me a man who is unhesitatingly obedient.
On the lookout for silver foxes.
The older the berry, the sweeter the juice.
ALSO BY HP MALLORY:
THE JOLIE WILKINS SERIES: (New York Times Bestselling Series)
Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble
Toil and Trouble
Be Witched (Novella)
Witchful Thinking
The Witch Is Back
Something Witchy This Way Comes
THE BRYN AND SINJIN SERIES: (Spinoff to the Jolie Wilkins Series)
Sinjin
The Scent
The Gentleman
THE DULCIE O’NEIL SERIES:
To Kill A Warlock
A Tale Of Two Goblins
Great Hexpectations
Wuthering Frights
Malice In Wonderland
For Whom The Spell Tolls
Eleven Snipers Sniping (Short Story)
A Midsummer Night’s Scream
Grave New World
THE LILY HARPER SERIES:
Better Off Dead
The Underground City
To Hell And Back
Persephone
The Bladesmith (Novella)
THE PEYTON CLARK SERIES:
Ghouls Rush In
Once Haunted, Twice Shy
Big Easy Murder (Novella)
THE ICE WOLF SERIES:
Ice Wolf (co-authored with JR RAIN)
H. P. Mallory is a New York Times and USA Today Bestselling
author of paranormal romance and urban fantasy.
She lives in Southern California with her son,
an enormous dog and a cranky cat.
Speak It Into Existence! Page 2