The Beatles Were Right

You can't buy love. Even with cupcakes. Silly me.

The Perfect Job

Some Sunday Morning, Summer 2007:

The sun shines through my large, east window. My hair is in a loose braid and I'm wearing plaid boxers and a college shirt, probably from Project Impact. I'm sitting in front of my oversized computer monitor, PB & J sandwich in my left hand, mouse on the other: Photoshop-ing ink drawings and testing layouts and colour schemes for the Peanut Gallery.

It's late morning and I should look more presentable. But I don't care. I'm in the zone. I'm creating. I'm designing. I'm happy.

That's what my perfect job looks like.

What Do I Want?

I think I've always been tentative to answer for fear of sounding selfish. I tend to put others' needs or wants ahead, admittedly not always self-lessly. The other half of my hesitance is self-consciousness.

Now I have downtime and the urgency to answer that question before taking my text life-step. So far I'm not sure of the answer but there's no wrong or right. I'm even afraid of what those wants are and changes they inevitably bring. (Change and I aren't friends but we've learned to be civil and even neighbourly.)

These are the hardest:

1) I want to not be afraid of wanting.

2) I want to be honest and good to myself.

3) I want to actually follow through with what it is I'm wanting.

Perhaps (and rightfully so) I should answer "Who am I?" first.