Wishing Unwell

I don’t wish quadriplegia on him. Just paraplegia. I want his hands to still be available to try, in tear-jerking vain, to jerk off the now powerless tool between his motionless legs. He deserves to know what it feels like to be forced into limitation, to be deprived of the options he thinks are his privilege, his birthright.
When he’s settled into paraplegia, I wish upon him a stroke that renders him incapable of speech. I’ll then stand before him, calmly stirring a cup of coffee, and say, “Hey, complete asshole. What’s it feel like to be half a man?”

I wrote this a couple of years ago about someone I cannot even identify now. I tell you this so you don’t think I’m directing this at anyone currently in my life. I am fairly confident that my inability to identify the subject cretin would shatter him only slightly less than the condition I wished upon him here. Carry on!