Friday, February 08, 2008

• Life's a funny thing.  Why is it that growing up, I knew what I wanted.  I was going to go to a funky, fantastic, semi-prestigious university to major in interior design, decorate model homes for a builder, and do some traveling.  By the age of 22, I'd be married, living in a fabulous town home  in New York City.  Perhaps I'd even own a bookstore/coffee shop rivaling The Shop Around the Corner--just not completely filled with children's books. 
  
  What's so difficult about that? 
  
  Now that I'm on the brink of beginning real life, life doesn't make sense.  I know what I want, but I don't.  I want to be a writer, but I have no idea how to get there.  Graduate school?  Internship?  Set up shop in a anti-trendy, pleasantly dilapidated apartment in Boston's artsy side?  Who knows.  I wish I did.
  
  

  • 9:09 AM
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