Funny How Things Change.. Even Dreams

When I was in elementary and junior high, I remember thinking that California sounded like the most exotic place in the world. Surfers, movie stars, beaches, mountains... I was going to be a famous writer and live among the stars. I even penned some pretty awesome stories during those years, giving my teachers the chance to peer into the future when they'd be begging me for a signed copy of my first best seller. I had it all planned out, my beach house on Malibu, my blonde haired, blue eyed surfer dude boyfriend.. my life would be grand.



As I got older and my tastes changed, I fancied the idea of being a serious journalist rather than simply a spinner of tales. I dreamed of living in a New York loft, like the chick in Flashdance and working for The New York Times or some hi-fallootin' magazine, getting the facts and winning Pulitzers for my awesometastic talent for sniffing out the story. I'd dine in fine restaurants, wear designer clothes, my life story would inspire HBO to do a long running series about my life...


It would be FABULOUS!!!

But years went by, the Amazon came along and other miscellaneous shit happened, as shit tends to do in the real world and I adjusted my dreams to a more reasonable level. My rural, podunk life made me crave the coast, only now I dreamed of Roanoke Island, off the coast of N.C. where I'd live in a small Victorian house just over a dune from the ocean at the end of a forgotten road, in solitude, just me and waves, where I could write and live in solitude, seeking peace and serenity and... I dunno.. some other kinda New Age bullshit...


But now? Now as I face each day, caring for Ma and trying to patiently accommodate her never ending lifelong goal of having a new bed to sleep in every three months, listening to her five calls to the hospital bed place every day as she gives them new instructions on when to pick her bed up because she insists it's broken, her endless calls to everyone in the family as she tries to borrow a bed and her insistence that I leap to do her bidding at any time of the day or night as she sees fit....

As she tells me that I can never leave or sell the trailer because her name is on the title and as she reminds me often that I am stuck, my ass over a figurative barrel for the rest of eternity, once again I have adjusted my hopes and dreams.

Now? Now I spend my days scouring the internet for deals on a used camper that I can stick in the yard and live in...


I am dead serious. 

Somehow I'm going to get myself out of debt enough that I can move to the yard. I know it doesn't look like much on the outside, but inside? They're nicer than my trailer.


Happy New Year ya'll. It's gotta be better... right?

Later Taters.



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