Your wish is granted. This topic is now only available for viewing in a threaded format, with a SEVERE indentation and each sublevel, culminating at 3-character line breaks at the third sublevel.
Thus, increasing the difficulty for all.
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Granted: You have no wishes.
I really wish that Dick Cheney was a good person.
Damn you.
Granted. But goodness is relative; everyone else is now worse than Dick CheneyâŚ
I wish⌠ermmmm⌠I wish for youth AND wisdom.
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Granted. He was. Until V-J Day.
I wish I could be a werewolf, but only during full moons of my choosing.
It is interesting how easy it is to corrupt, and how hard to send a wish of your own out to be dashed upon the rocks, no?
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(going with yours because Gilbertâs got the last one and you two were close timing-wise)
Granted. Everyone else is a werewolf when the moon is not full.
Also:
Iâll go back and wish bunnies pooped gold.
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Granted. Now that bunnies poop gold, all the worldâs biomass has been converted to incorruptable metal, which attracts plutonian dragons to feast upon the starving bunnies and humans. I hope youâre happy.
I wish to never stay late at work again.
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Oooh. Well played.
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That was a really lucky image search 
I was first thinking the horrible abuse the moon took in âThe Tickâ and when I saw the werewolf . . . solved!
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Granted, you now know the pleasure of being a Tween Dungeon Master for the very second time.
(the first time everyone always gets Vorpal Weapons, slays Tiamat, and then spends the next several hours dicking around with the Machine of Lum the Mad.)
Youâre fired.
I wish I had a job.
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Congratulations, Cratchit. Hereâs your stool, your eyeshade, and your monthly bucket of coal. Get to work.
I wish I were better at concentrating.
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Granted. Every wait at a bus-stop, every doctorâs appointment, every long journey, every slack Friday afternoon is a pin-sharp hell of hyper-reality.
I wish it was summer.
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It was Summer who left you, not the other way around. Thereâs no other way it could have been but for the longest time, you didnât realize it. You thought you hated her and the way she never combed her auburn hair except when her hair was wet from the shower.
Free spirit didnât begin to describe her. Her brown eyes would flick over something melancholy and suddenly it shattered to pieces. After six months, you didnât even have to look up to see what had happened. You just grabbed the broom and dustpan and went to clean up the results.
You could never be the one to leave, though. Sometimes you thought she needed you, but that wasnât why you stayed. You knew she didnât need you but you liked to imagine you helped in some way. Holding together the pieces.
She didnât need the pieces held together. She needed them to fall apart and fade to dust.
You did fall apart. And, in time, weâre all dust.
â
I wish for the ability to understand or not understand animals at my own whim.
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Doh!!!
Granted. You now lack the ability to communicate with humans and turn to the birds for solace. While they do discuss wind vectors at great length they are the only interesting ones worth discussing things with given their time-honed abilities to chat about human gossip gained through phone lines.
Eventually you get pretty depressed about not being able to talk with people and move to the wilds of Montana where you are having an off day when you hear the perfectly clear growl of a bear behind you declare that you look perfect for a quick bite.
I wish I could listen in on phone lines like the birds.
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Welcome to the NSA, hereâs your cube.
âŚ
I wish someone would photoshop Chris Christieâs face on that photo of Kim Jong Un forever alone on the ski lift.
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Okay, but because of the nature of this thread, youâre not going to like it.
I wish I could go skiing with Chris Christie.
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He agreed to meet you at Stowe, but you canât get there due to a massive bridge traffic jam.
I wish this thread would end. The misery is too great to bear.
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