I want to gather up all the ink cartridges in the universe, because somewhere, mixed in with all that ink, is the next great American novel. And I’d love nothing more than to drink it.I want to wield a sword at a Yield sign and shout “Never!”I want to go to all the topless bars in America and try to sell every single one of them a roof.I want to be a creature that’s half bee, half the letter B. That way I can pollinate the world with my literacy.I want to tell every loser, “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch. But if you do, you can always make scrambled eggs out of your failures.”I want to never stop growing as a person. I’d love to be well over 8 feet tall.I want to make my own luck in this world with a recipe handed down from my great-great-great grandfather, who was Irish on his great-great-great grandfather‘s side. Here is his recipe of luck:I want to say something so embarrassing about September that even the leaves start blushing and turning red.I want to be a catfish, although being both predator and prey would probably eat at me. But with the right seasoning, I’d be OK with that.I want to change my unlisted phone number to the first seven digits in the Fibonacci sequence, or (904) 011.2358. You won’t be able to find me in the phone book, but I’ll be all throughout nature.I want to visit Mount Fallacy and go sledding on a slippery slope.I want to be a farmer and do farmer things like till the soil, grow food for my family, and be able to milk The Mythical Mr. Boo for all he’s worth (rumored to be half a dozen pots of gold stolen from various leprechaun pirates).I want to make believe out of Q-tips, duct tape, and faith.I want to inspire perspiration among a group of disenfranchised deodorant sticks.I want to have makeup sex, because I find cosmetics so erotic.It’s not enough to want it more than anybody else. You have to want it in such a way that makes your brain subconsciously say, “I want this like I need food, shelter, sex, self-actualization, or Maslow’s mustache.”I want to grow a flower for every time someone tells me “F*** you.” Then I’ll go back to that person and pin the flower on their lapel in a gesture of friendship.I want to start viewing the past, the present, and the future as one big hairy monster that consumes all of my time.I want to reshape history, much like a sculptor reshapes clay. The only difference is that I don’t want to get my hands dirty.I want to have nine lives, like a cat, without having all that chest and back hair.I want to hear the rain in my tears, which fall under the umbrella of “emo.”I want to long for something other than being longer or belonging or anything else that lies along that logical longitude.I want to give Orafoura an enigma for a birthday present, so he has a mystery to unwrapIn a brave and noble way, I want to sacrifice my life one day so that two of my clones can live.I want my next girlfriend to be able to speak a different body language. Specifically, I want her armpits so hairy they speak French.I want to keep our relationship fresh like lettuce, if you’ll just let us.I want what I want, and I want it now. And what I want more than anything is a present of the present. And I want that present now.I want to bulk up my resume by employing the use of weights and steroids.I want to start a literary movement called “Fragmentalented,”I want to start a literary movement called “Fragmentalented,” which combines the words “fragment,” “mental,” and “talented” to underscore the fact that I believe long prose can be displaced by a barrage of brief and seemingly random thoughts, which are the tools in the shed that shed light onto a character’s psyche.I want to develop body language for the blind. Instead of 26 letters, or thousands of subtle facial twitches and rapid body movements that normal people utilize to communicate, I want to instill a series of combination punches delivered to the torso of a blind person to help them better engage in effective conversational combat. Of course, boxing gloves with Braille embossed on the front will be used.I want to discourse while I diss Scorsese (Wait, not Scorsese-- scores of easy-to make-fun-of directors).I want to change the world one quarter at a timeI want to meet Waldo, steal his sweater, and then meet Weezer and say to them, "If you want to destroy my sweater, you'll have to find me first."I want to walk around wearing casserole pants, a cheese shirt, and an oven mitt on my right hand, especially when meeting people for the first time.I want to be better than the best possible me from the most perfect parallel universe. And the way I’ll be able to be better than the perfect me is to find that alternate Jarod Kintz, take the unsuspecting fool out to dinner, and then poison him.I want to have the desire to yearn.I want to feel the emptiness pour out of me like curdled milk cascading out of an out-caste cow.I want to be a clock, so that it would be easier to figure out what makes me tick.I want to slap you in the face for bragging about your threesome with two strange women you picked up in a bar. Now, if you had had a threesome with Helen Keller and Mother Theresa, I’d have given you a high five, and then urged you to seek counseling for your necrophilia.I want to rattle your cajun. If empty promises tasted like jambalaya, I’d promise you New Orleans and then have an empty box the size of Louisiana delivered to you. And I’d make you pay for shipping.I want to write 430 bizarre, surreal, or absurd "I Want" statementsSome things you need to know about me:The future always makes me laugh, because that’s where all the punch lines lie.I believe the future holds something different for all of us. Sometimes it holds our hands. Other times it holds our breath for eternity.I like using big words. Words like huge, gigantic, massive.Rather than waste a whole day, I would rather spend it counting to 86,400.The son of a chemist, I was the first test-tube baby to be born in a beaker.I entered this world, not as a blank canvas, but rather a walking Rorschach test. As I grew older and wiser, people began noticing that what they saw in me, they really saw in themselves. Not only do I hold up a mirror to people, but I also brush their hair.I was raised in a small fishing village. Mostly they caught minnows.Most people aren’t fortunate enough to be born on a national holiday, unless of course they go on to greatness and that day eventually gets named after them. But they usually miss out on the day of celebration, as they are most likely dead by the time their birthday is named a holiday. That’s why I am going at it a little bit differently. From here on out, I’m calling in sick to work every March 5th. And on that day, Jarod Kintz Day, I’m going to march in a one-man parade up and down Beach Boulevard in honor of a man who gave his life so that I might live. I’ve been great to myself. Be great to yourself this year and really enjoy your birthday. Remember: birthdays only happen once a year, twice at the most.