Sometimes having a dream hurts worse than anything else. You get pains all over your body from carry it around and the sonofabitches who put the thought there to begin with doesn’t even give you the courtesy to ever see what youre carrying, its a few hiundred yardsin front of you, always outof sight. You walk around with a fire in your belly that people tell you is agood thing, but really just gets you in to all sort of trouble. For me nd my dream, I’m a serial job quitter. The carrot of the end of the stick looks so good I trick myself into thinking I;ll get it any other way than good hard work. It also causes me to cry or become wholly morose atthe most wrong moments. Worst of all, the absolute worst, is that my dream has become so large and beautiful that I’ve become incredibly diluted. My dream has become better than me. All the longing and the pining and the carrying and the planning have swelled to such immensity and in completely void space. It’s like I’m sitting in an empty room, looking round, and wondering why did I even want to fill it inthe first place? Isn’t it perfectly functional barren? What’s the use of filling it with shit when its just fine as it is: plain and empty.
This si how I’m one of modern cultures largest cliches. A waitress working in a small town, hoping to one day move to the Big City and become an actress. As if its something I’ll just change into when I take my first subway ride.