wishes

Birthday Wishes

I wish…
That I were thirty instead of twenty-one.
That my hair was naturally ginger instead of the weird shade of brown-blonde that it is.
That I was naturally skinny without ever feeling the urges of an eating disorder rule my life.
That I manage to support myself, at least partly, with writing.
That I find a comfortable niche for myself in life.
That I keep the friends I have and love.
That I never stop loving books.
That I become a crazy cat-lady.
That I have a good year.
That I sleep well.
That the people I love continue loving me back.
That Harry Potter was a real person.
That I could have more hours in each day specifically in order to read.
That Israel weren’t so hot.
That Johnny Depp, Davey Havok, and Darren Criss were close, personal friends.
That I could get through J. R. R. Tolkein’s “Lord of the Rings.”

I could keep writing this list forever, adding random wishes for past, present and future. But the most important thing right now, on this relaxing, lovely birthday is that I recognize and appreciate every bit of what I do have. Cheesy? Corny? Yes. True? That too.

Birthday Genie

“Rise and shine, Cupcake.”

“Huh? Wha’? Whossere?”

“Cantcha see me, Lovey?”

“Okay, really, who’s there?”

“Right here, Honeybunch!”

“This must be a dream. Because you’re in my alarm clock.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not my fault if your friends thought it would be hilarious to buy you a Disney-themed birthday present.”

“Sure, I’ll play along, because this is going to be a fun dream to tell people about tomorrow. If you’re the Genie, why don’t you sound like Robin Williams?”

“I do!”

“No, you don’t.”

“Do too!”

“Whatever.”

“Anyway, as I said, rise and shine and all that. It’s officially your birthday. So what do you want from me?”

“So you’re a bona-fide genie? Well, in this dream anyway?”

“It’s not a dream, Cherry-blossom. And yes, I am.”

“Quit it with the flowery nicknames, will you? It’s getting old. So how many wishes do I get?”

“The usual three. Gotta go by tradition here, Honey-pie. Honey and pie aren’t flowers.”

“You’re obnoxious, you know that?”

“Whatever, as you’d say.”

“Okay, so here are my wishes. I want to wake up, have a good day and never have this weird dream again.”

“Seriously? No money, princes, true love, eternal life, all that stuff?”

“Since this is a dream – NO.”

“It isn’t a dream. But okay, here goes, if that’s really all you want. You ready?”

“Yes, I’m quite ready to wake up from this ridiculous dream, thank you.”

“Well, you’re missing out on a great opportunity here. But if you’re sure…

…

…

BEEP BEEP BEEP”

Stories

We’re all made of stories.

We’re all living stories.

We’re all making stories.

Everything in our lives can be seen as a story. There’s the story about how you were born, the story of whose braid you pulled in first grade, and when you got braces, and why you chose to take physics in high-school and where you had your first kiss.

We all tell stories every day. There’s the story you tell your best friend about how your date went last night, the story you tell your aunt about whose car you dented last week, and the one you tell your coworker about when the boss got drunk at the office party, and the one you tell your cat about why you’re giving him canned food instead of dry today, and the one you tell yourself about where you wish you were right now.

We all make up stories all the time, too. There’s the story of how you wish your father was alive, the story of whose life you’d want to try out for a day, and the story of when you’ll really feel like a grown-up for sure, and why you’re going to win the lottery next time and where you can picture yourself living in ten years.

But then, there are the missing stories.

The stories of horrible events that need to be suppressed.

The stories that you’ll never know, because there’s no one who can tell them to you.

The stories that will never be, because they’re too frightening to really accept.

Even then, though – there are stories. Every minute of every day of your life. They are stories.