Some Dreams

(Here's my entry for this week's Fifty Words challenge, "Monkey Mind." I did the freewriting for about 10 minutes, and was surprised at how quickly my hands got tired. I didn't change too much, though I did clean it up a tiny little bit after the fact. I didn't change the superhero section, because I thought it was pretty funny that I could only think of two powers, and then had to start making shit up. Seriously, what superhero can walk through walls?)

Some Dreams

I never wanted to be a ballerina or a cowboy or an actor or President of the United States. OK, maybe I wanted to be all of those things. But only for a minute.

I always wanted a pet monkey. I always thought I would get one for my birthday. When prompted to guess what I was getting for my birthday, I always said, “Is it a monkey?” I always thought that this time I would guess right. I never did.

I always wanted to be invisible. I always thought that would be the best superpower to have. I never wanted to be able to fly, or to deflect bullets with my silver armbands, or to walk though walls, or do any of the other things that super heroes could do. I can do all of those things in my dreams, anyway.

I always wanted to be on the Tonight Show. I would practice my interview in the bathroom in front of the mirror. “When I was a kid, I always knew I would be on the Tonight Show,” I would tell Johnny. “I practiced what I would say in front of the bathroom mirror.” And Johnny would ask me, “What would you say?” And I would smile and say, “I always said, ‘When I was a kid, I always knew I would be on the Tonight Show…’” The audience would laugh and laugh. I never doubted that they would.

I always wanted to have 12 children. What made me pick the number 12? I must have read it in a book somewhere. I always latched onto things I read in books. I always thought I would meet Prince Charming, who would be carrying a size 12 glass slipper and when it fit my size 12 foot he would ask me to marry him and have his 12 children. I never did that, either.

I always wanted to be a writer. OK, maybe not always. But for a pretty long time. At least since I learned to read. At least since I learned to write. At least since I wrote that book report in the 8th grade about the symbolism of the rose bush in The Thorn Birds that got me a C because the teacher said it was just a plot summary. She never believed that I was a good writer. I always knew that she was wrong.

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(A reminder: Today is the last day to submit entries to Fifty Words. I'll post a new challenge tomorrow morning.)
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