I have always heard it is best to write what you know. This is about me, because, well, I know myself better than the world around me - so far.

I always find it a hassle to pick a journal to write my thoughts in. I have a friend who systematically fills up one journal and then moves on to the next. It’s tidy. My brain works that way, but my creativity doesn’t. So I’ve ended up with twenty journals and there are stray lines and a smattering of filled pages in about a quarter of them. I actually found that some of my journals screamed “I’m too pretty!” when I tried to put my mediocre words on the page. I hate writing in pencil - because it has an uncanny way of smudging to the point of unreadability - but the constant changing of my mind while I’m writing forbids the use of a ball-point.

But I suppose my wish for my journals’ preservation comes from what some would call my ingrained ‘expensive taste’. Yes, I’ll imagine myself as that one with high-shine floors, cherry furniture, and stainless steel kitchen appliances. I know I want neutral color schemes and black and white photography splattered all over my walls. Black and white shows so much soul. I want my couch to be so that I can stage a slow-motion fall into its span of corduroy pillows, ending with my eyes on a high, arched ceiling. The windows shall stretch from the ground to the ceiling. We will move the couch when we have need of a Christmas tree the size of Godzilla.

This is when I say I want to be a writer. A writer that makes Stephen King or J.K. Rowling- style royalties. I guess I feel enabled to predict this expensive future even though I don’t see myself having any type of large success. I’m that never-been-kissed, stone-faced writer who knows it’s beautiful to find an attractive man with a well-worn library card. That writer who had twenty journals as a teenager and who wanted so much to change the world - so instead of writing daily, she learned every language she could.

I will drive a truck; a huge truck that I can just barely climb into. I get my empowerment from driving a 4x4 in high heels. And when you drive up next to me with your tinted windows and your disgustingly loud bass, I shall not hesitate to crank the volume dial on my country station. You want your skin to shake? Take some of my Willie Nelson or my Jodee Messina. You probably don’t deserve it, but I need an excuse to purse my unshined lips and pretend I know what I’m doing.

All of this, of course, is an alternative to my joining the CIA. If that never works out, the above detailed life shall suit me fantastically.