Take me, mold me in to what you want.
Perfect barista, perfect student, perfect woman, perfect girlfriend, perfect wife, perfect sister, perfect daughter, perfect mother, perfect friend, perfect life, perfect person in a perfect world.
Take away all of my freedom by imposing a necessary set of hoops through which to jump, give me set requirements, and like a test rat running a maze, give me a little joy, a bit of cheese, to make sure I continue slogging through several shocks, with the ultimate goal being freedom.
Take my human colored clay, mold me into a thin, blonde, centerfold.
Give me slight intelligence, a bit of charm, and a platter of hors d’oeuvers. Hourglass figure, watch my time tick away until I am nothing but a dried, fragile bit of artwork, dusty and high on a shelf.
Throw me away, toss me out with the garbage. Spring cleaning, new beginnings, movie is over. Pause. Rewind. Play.
Take my daughter, mold her in to what you want.
I’m perfectly tired of everyone telling me how to run my life, things I should do.
No. No.
No.
I will fail, I will regret, I will cry. My heart will break. I will make stupid decisions.
I will do things because I want to.
I don’t want to go to college.
I don’t want to be tied into a career.
I don’t want to settle in one place right away.
So, there.
Anyways.
So far, I’ve gotten everything that the pathetic romantic in me always wanted.
I’ve painted this pretty little hipster picture.
Got a job at a coffee shop, got the beautiful love story, got the freedom.
Got the angst, got the pain, got every little bit of tragedy that my cinematic heart desired.
I realized that all I ever wanted to be was a book.
I wanted an alluring cover, dark and romantic, with a tragic one word title.
I wanted to be at least 800 pages, because the thick books are always supposed to be the best, right? Full of detail, and knowledge, and feeling.
I wanted to have footnotes, to enlighten the interested, to give space for a bit more rambling.
I wanted to be a frame story. So deep I needed an introduction to the actual story; I am the ancient mariner.
I wanted all of that.
Now I just want to be a children’s book, full of brightly colored pictures and a few one or two syllable words, a few solid characters, a moral, and a happy ending.
All I really want is a happy ending.
