I used to wish for lots of things.

That I would be a better singer. Or could write song lyrics. Or poetry. That I wasn’t so afraid of things. And remembered birthdays and bought thoughtful presents that made my friends smile. That I was better organized, kept things tidier, made time for trying something new.

For a while, I wanted to be a great chef, then a great journalist, then a great anything. I wanted to live by the ocean and hear the waves on the beach and write all day. I wanted to make the world a better place. Make everyone happy. Be perfect.

I hoped I might see the world and be a better friend and for a short period in the nineties, I wanted to own a Camero. I dreamed of owning a horse until I met one and realized I didn’t like horses, but I was only eight so I think I can be forgiven for misguided dreams.

I’ve had moments of wanting to be exactly like my mom and nothing like my mom and to never be a mom and in brief but very painful moments, I’ve wanted nothing more than to be one.

When I was little, I hoped very much to see a real smurf village, even though I knew, deep down, that they weren’t real.

I wanted to build forts and treehouses and to be better at sports and to never have to play sports again. I’ve longed to look prettier in dresses, to be more girly, to have more friends.

Then sometimes all I’ve wanted is to be alone.

I used to think that all I needed was to be loved. But then I realized that was just a song. Sometimes I want ice cream even though it’s cold, and a quiet place to read and blank paper and a good pen, and I want more time, if only there was more time and I could save it in a bottle, but that’s only a song too.

We all want to be happy.

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