I just want what any writer wants.

To feel seen.

Known.

Memorialized.

With a statue.

In a park.

A good park, not some crappy one next to a Walgreens.

And I want school kids to write book reports about me.

With dioramas highlighting historical moments from my life.

And if their construction paper cutout of me isn’t perfect, I want the teacher to tear it out of the shoebox and yell, “That doesn’t look anything like him, you stupid idiot!”

And I want songs written about me. Songs that are played on a federal holiday created in my honor.

And on that day every year I will emerge from my mansion and march down the street with a stack of autographed books, and people will scream my name, hoping that I might toss one their way. And as I disappear down the block, behind me I will hear the sound of beautiful women weeping, telling each other through tears, “Now we can die. For we have seen him. The most humble man who ever lived.”