On my left hand, in the center of the palm, a small wart resides. I know that with will power, such things can be made to disappear. But the wart has become a favored imperfection. I think that my wart teaches humility, although I thought eighth grade did a good job of that already. Perhaps it teaches me about mountains--they look so large and hard to climb from below, and so distant and small from above.
If I had one wish, it would involve eating spaghetti-o's.