I want to live in a cute apartment in New York City that’s decorated with fascinating knickknacks and furniture that doesn’t go together but fits and works. I want to be thinner and taller, a size four and five six. I want to have wavy hair that comes down my back just far enough that I can put it up into a messy bun and look artistic. I want to wear these clothes that shouldn’t go together either, but just like my furniture, they work. I want to be known as that writer girl, the one who’s always carrying a notebook or a laptop, always scribbling or typing away at something. I want to laugh with friends and drink crappy red wine with our pizza and French fries while we get into debates about anything and everything. I want to have a dog that jumps up every time I come into the room, who attacks my legs with glee when I come home from work. I want to have a job that I love going to every single day, I want to have coworkers that I go out with for drinks sometimes. I want to wear big sunglasses and not look like a bug, I want to be drinking coffee every morning and be unable to function without it. I want my teeth to be straight and white, cute little rows of white Chiclets in my mouth. I want to have men staring after me as I walk by, only to look away when I catch their eyes and smile. I want to strut down the streets with my head held high, knowing that I am a sight to behold and anyone looking at me is doing so out of admiration, not disgust. I want to have a blog that everyone loves and talks about. I want to be free of my family; I want to be happy; I want to be loved. I want to go home at night and curl up with my dog and a good book. I want a roommate that I love, who challenges me to do my best and vice versa. I want to learn how to cook exotic dishes and not-so-exotic dishes. I want to be part of a community of writers, who sit down together and discuss their stories and their characters and everything else. I want to be writing every day. I want to have a box full of journal pages that I’ve printed out, to save for a rainy day when I’m wondering what exactly I was thinking when I was sixteen, seventeen, and so on. I want to have artistic talent, instead of just creativity. I want to be a character in a book, complete with my own special happy ending and guy of my dreams. I want to live this life that I’m thinking of, the life that I’m trying so desperately hard to describe, but can’t seem to grasp the words for.