Sweet sixteen

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I had high hopes at age 16. My grades were good, and I could have gotten into a good school if I wanted. My ambitions were unrealistic and whacked, though. I wanted to become a writer, but not only that, I wanted to be a combination of Hunter S. Thompson, Charles Bukowski, and Jean Genet, and if the writing didn’t work out

If those names mean nothing to you, I wanted to be a drug using, alcohol dependent person of questionable morality who wrote about their adventures…oh god, I’M LIVING THE DREAM. Just a significantly poorer and less accomplished version of the dream than anticipated.

And if being the world’s premier female drug writer didn’t work out, I wanted to be a counselor. That’s still an interest of mine, to an extent. However, I feel like I’d get too emotionally invested in my patients, and I’d end up going through six bad marriages and years of benzodiazepine addiction.

I needed a good, hard slap as a teenager, apparently.

Now I want to be a decent person with a decent job and a lack of general craziness in their life, and I’m moving toward getting there.

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