I have a dream. It's the same dream so many giddy schoolgirls have when listening entranced to a sweet-voiced charmer and his guitar...or looking at a beautiful picture...

Read the Beautiful and the Damned, watch Garden State, listen to Simple, and you'll know the amazing and infinite appeal of it.

I want to be an artist's. I want to so amaze him, so intrigue him, so beguile him that he is constantly amazed by me. He will watch me with wonder and tears will come to his eyes with delight in the simple pleasure of my smile. My words will startle him and make him laugh, even later when he is alone in his room and the conversation we had runs through his head. I will become his muse.

I want him to write me as Fitzgerald wrote Gloria. I want to see myself through the eys of someone else, perfect and interesting and so enormously intimate. I want to hear my nervous tics and adorable traits on the radio. I want to be immortalized. I want my youth...I want my beauty to be preserved infinitely.

And even when I am broken by my husband, I am normal and sad and wrinkled, even when the juice is squeezed out of me, I am too tired to frolic and I've run out of things to say there will still be that piece and that's how they will remember me.

I must wait of course, for my gift and I must lose him first, because my portrayal shall be no sweeter or more flawless than from the melancholy and magnificent glow of reminiscence. I won't be truly appreciated until I am lost and he walks to find others like me, but realizes that I was one in a million, impossible. Then my flaws will become vain but charming and in his eyes I'll shine.