I waste my life writing hidden, meaningless words that perpetuate my infatuations.
It's ridiculous, really, the things I dream of. All impossible.
What do I want? Everything. I want life to be like the Weetzie Bat books.
I want to live in a little cotton candy house in the San Francisco fog. Tyler can have a Duck, and I'll have my Secret Agent Lover Noir (or, you know, whoever ). We'll have a baby girl who moves like the wind and smells like the ocean. My mom and my baby brother will live with us, making the house full with family. I'm not sure who would fill the Witch Baby role, but that's the destiny of a witch baby - she's a random and unexpected faerie thing. We'd publish beautiful artsy nude photo books and magazines, and use our medium to help change the world.
But then I think about reality, and realise how depressingly insane that is.
My mom is a Jehovah's witness and would think of the alternative lifestyle of the household as sinful. If she even found out I wrote this, I'd probably be disowned.
No one can afford to live in San Francisco.
I really don't feel like commenting about the rest of it, because it's to painfully close to being possible, yet still completely out of reach.