What did I think would make me happy when I was 21 years old? Losing weight? Meeting a man? Being blonde? Anything but what I was, I guess.
I ask myself today: What is it that will make me happy? A new job? A new city? Losing weight, of course. I have no desire to be blonde.
Perhaps I will be the woman living under a bridge. Not worrying about the meaning of life or paying bills or being happy. Just being. I’d walk around, no bags, no baggage, not a care in the world. Just me, under the bridge.