I think I want to be David Blaine.
Or Anne Lamott’s assistant.
Or a Pulitzer prize winning author.

I want to be a tour guide at Alcatraz.
Or a fancy New York editor.
Or a professional wine taster.

I want to be a pastry chef.
Or a buyer for anthropologie.
Or a writer for national geographic.

I want to drink coffee for a living.
Or get paid to learn about theology.
Or make homemade cards to sell on street corners.

I want to test drive new cars and take a train across Europe and fly a float plane.  Just once.

I want to buy a dog and take him running and let him sleep in my bed.

I want to find the best sushi restaurant in the whole world.

And buy a new car just so I can literally set the sunfire ablaze and watch it burn completely into ashes.  New window and all.

That is what I want to do.

And yet none of this involves writing the paper I have due in the morning…

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