When I grow up...

I want to be a NBA basketball player. Too late for that one. And too short too. Not black. Lazy. That hating coaches thing doesn’t help. 12 more killers, Marc!!

I want to be a fireman. They die often. Heavy loads. Weird hours. The thought of a Full Monty ensemble production being produced at the 3rd firehouse on 17th and Lincoln was intriguing and then I heard what actually happens when the curtains close.

I want to be a lead singer of a rock band. I can’t live in a van for 3 weeks, I need a powder room! I’d so get tired of my songs. And I’d forget my lyrics. Plus all the ugly girls would come after me. Groupies aren’t as fun unless we were a big hair band.

I want to be a BET VJ. I would get punched in the face by 50 cent’s police officer guard with a nightstick after I told him he sucks. I would refuse to air Crime Mob’s “Rock Your Hips” for the 35th time. Rocsi would kick me out for not hitting on her. I would laugh at some of the kids’ outfits. I can’t adlib can I? Man, Snoop, no that video was wack!

I want to be producer. I have to be a College Dropout. I need Inspiration like Jeezy. How does this downloaded demo version of Fruity Loops work again? And how do I make hot beats? Oh, that’s a drum machine. I’ll just pay Swizz 80 grand and call it a day.

I want to not grow up. I think that’ll happen and only if I let it. Never be too serious. Let yourself go sometimes. Drink a bottle of rum. Well, not the whole bottle, unless you’re an alcoholic, then by all means. Throw eggs. Whine. Don’t work for the “Man”. Buy Madden ’19 when it comes out and beat your kid with the Jets and yell in his face saying “boo ya, grandma!”

I want to be a film director. Like Quentin Tarentino. But I don’t smoke crack and I don’t follow my idiosyncrasies.

I want to be a baller. Lil’ Troy is probably in a Texas bar drinking a Miller Lite. He’s pulling out a Newport and striking his match. He goes home and watches Jim Jones. He laughs.

I want to be a teacher. Too nice. You can’t touch that girl just cuz you think she’ll look hot when she’s 22. Solitaire won’t pass all the damn time. I’d have to play something other than the Goonies for the class.

I want to be myself. Check.

I want to be a nurse. Trust me, I’ve heard them all. I know them all. And I am quite capable of biting my lip and having some sort of PSTD of the smells that linger like perpetual smelling salts; nothing beats the smell of shit that’s been left out for 4 hours at 6 am when you haven’t eaten breakfast.

I want to… fuck, I don’t know what I want to do. That’s fine. I don’t think half of us ever know what we want to do. We just do. The do takes us to wherever and whenever: San Francisco, 35 years old, a cancer survivor, a meth addict with two children, a hollow business man.

And at the end I want to be content.