New Shoes Stuck to Aging Feet

Thanksgiving has passed, and so has the thanking. I am back to wanting again.

I continually assure myself that I need nothing, but I haven't recently been able to tell myself that I don't want anything. I want everything.

I want to be a doctor and a novelist. I want to run a marathon. I want the new volume of Nylon magazine. I want to be chased through the streets of Los Angeles by the paparazzi. I want a loft apartment in Manhattan and a villa in Naples. I want to be free. I want to just be happy for five minutes. I want to finally not want. I want to put on a fake moustache, rob a bank for kicks, and give the large, tan bags of money to the some charity that I will select at random. I want to dance in the middle of Washington Avenue. I want a really long scarf that keeps my neck warm and almost drags on the ground. I want coffee from a different coffee shop every day. I want speak Korean and travel to Japan. I want to move to Paris and become an ex-patriot.

...I cannot tell if you are reading, because your eyes are no longer dotting my [I]s...

I will not worry about people staring at my calves when I roll my pants up in December. I will not settle for anything, and I will not demand that anyone settles for me. I will not sing under my breath. I will not ache. I will not take pain killers because my mattress sucks. I will not kiss and tell. I will not starve myself. I will not eat ice cream (unless I want ice cream), and I will not eat carbs (unless I want fettuccini and garlic bread). I will not devote my life to making myself miserable. I will not be forgotten like a Wednesday evening. I will not be gone before you know I'm here.

And all I want for Christmas is my two front teeth.