tavie.com

What do I want? Tell me please.

A marketable skill.
A marketable skill that I enjoy performing.
A marketable skill that I am passionate about.
An apartment of my own in the city.
The ability to fly like a bird.

They are all equally fantastical ideas. Except, perhaps, the first, as I get paid for typing fast.

I want the fantastical stuff, though.

How to get the rest?

Go to school. Take classes. Learn things I don't know. Get good grades. Enjoy it. Graduate. Go to better school. Work even harder. Enjoy it. Get degree. Meet a pixie and ask him to sprinkle me with flying dust.

It all seems impossible. Especially "enjoy it".

I wish I was:

Eighteen again.
Graduating from Bronx Science with all my Regents credits.
Applying to schools that I like.
Smart. Book-smart, people-smart, street-smart.
Creative.
Passionate.
Talented enough to use it.

Pretty.

Passionate.

Well, fuck all that. Fuck want. What I am:

(Take a deep breath. In, out. Now, don't hurt yourself in what you say next. Be objective. Be reasonable. Be accurate.)

Reasonably intelligent.
Reasonably able to cope with other people.
Alive.
Able to do small things that provide amusement and comfort to myself. (Examples include drawing pictures, singing songs like Julie Andrews, making things rhyme, whistling, hugging.)
In my early 20's.
Reasonably healthy and strong.
In posession of a job, family, and friends, all of which provide a comfortable support system.
Capable of learning. Yes. Yes, Tavie.
In possession of coffee.

You have assets. Now shut up and do something productive.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 11:44 AM | shower me with attention