I am no longer a dreamer.

There comes a point in life where the dreaming stops for most people. Stories and wishes and superstitions no longer mean anything. You're no longer afraid of ghosts. Your aspirations and goals are lowered. It starts out simple, you give up first your dream of being a ballerina or a princess, then your stories that you used to make up with your dolls seem pointless as well. And as time goes by, one by one the dreams are dropped by the wayside, unwanted in the dust as you travel down the road of life. There, saying your last goodbyes to going to Harvard, or a class in accounting at USD replaces studying to be a star musician at Berklee. And eventually, the fantasy and the hope and that brilliant future that lay before you when you were young? Dissapeared. Your imagination, even, deserts you, rusted and weak from unuse. (not a real word but I don't care) You stare at the toys that you could spend hours with when you were younger and wonder what happened? You remember glaring at the grown-ups, always boring, talking, working, always too busy, always not now, honey, momm's got a headache, always why don't you play with your barbies by yourself, dear. Always no creativity no reason no time. And you vowed never to be like them, you didn't want to grow up, you were a Toys R Us Kid. Well it's too late, now isn't it? And once you've turned, there's no going back.

"Today is the first day of the rest of your life," oh, bullshit. The rest doesn't mean crap. You didn't appreciate your first days well enough and now you're just an overweight, underweight, self-conscious insecure, no reason no time no creativity, one night stands only oh-so-mature grown-up realist. The only dreams you have are the ones where you're asleep, of missing your deadline or maybe that recurring one about walking in on your parents having sex.

Congratulations!

And I'm one of you bastards now.