When I grow up….

I’ll be. a. MONSTERRRRRRRRRRR.

That’s a song Gabe sent me a while ago. And I refound it in my car the other day. It would be grand if all I had to do when I grew up, was to be a monster. I wanna be a cyclops ogre. That way I  won’t need school. Or a real job. Or a car. Cause I’ll be the kind of cyclops ogre with wings. Massive Pegasus wings. Except I won’t ever pull a chariot. For anyone. I don’t car if they need the sun to come up. It’s not my job. I won’t have a job. I’ll be a monster.

I don’t like growing up. I just. I want to wear sneakers everyday. And play my guitar watch bad movies do origami eat chocolate go on a hike to get lost and eaten by a mountain lion roller coaster finish crocheting that blanket for my mom that I was supposed to give her on christmas and I’ll never have babies because I’ll still be a baby I still am a baby listen to me whine I want to go back to Florida and forget about bills money is evil puts blackness in your heart  oh you don’t have to believe me you can just watch it happen to everyone else and I wasn’t typing correctly this entire time(my wrists were down) so now my wrists hurt and the callouses on my fingers are coming back but only if I play everyday and last week I was playing in the living room making up stupid songs about my niece bouncing off the walls while she was dancing in circles infront of me then my sister came home and started dancing to blue moon cause that’s what I was playing then she went up stairs and started yelling down at me because I was down stairs and it made her feel better to yell I guess and she started feeding the cat and cussing in english under her breath about my "damn" guitar but see I was having fun and I haven’t even spoken to my guitar in about two months she doesn’t get it. And if it means that I can’t play anymore. If growing up means I have to keep celebate relationships with all the things I love. Then that’s not living and I hate it. And sometimes I think when people ask me what I do for fun. And all I mention is the silly hobbies I have and not beer, they think less of me. Because they think I think more of myself than other’s with barely’s breath. And I don’t. It’s just not a hobby of mine. Get over it. And sometimes I think when I tell people all my hobbies they might think I’m lame. And boring. Because I don’t have grand business schemes to take over the US with billion dollar corporations. Or like watching baseball all the time. Go Boston Red Sox. I love that they won. But I can’t catch espn every day. I’d rather watch food network. Or discovery. Shark week. Or something.

And sometimes I think my sister is right. Because. She thinks I have this ego about me that makes men think I’m a snotty snotty miss two by four. Sometimes I think I’ll be like I am now fifty years from now in a log cabin or a beach house on a rocking chair trying to finish my damn crocheted quilt with my horse and no car just hidden away and no one will find me. And I think I already romanticized that part, and partly can see it becoming truth.

I wish I were an impressive grown up.