- To be a smoker. I don’t want the lung cancer or the bad breath or the yellow nails, but I secretly want to be a smoker. Some dark, smoking form, keen and sharp. I want to click open a lighter while leaning casually against a wall, smoke enveloping me seductively like I was a leading lady in film noir.
- Candles in my dorm.
- To be an art model. This goes against everything I’ve ever said about the violence of the gaze on the feminine form. But I don’t know.
- The ability to eat copious amounts of play-dough without fear of germs or nausea.
- My advisor.