If it kills me...if it kills me

I'd like to dance. I'd like to study abroad. No. I'd like to be abroad. I'd like to not have a plan, and just go. I'd like to go wherever I feel like, and work in cafes to make ends meet. I'd like to go to New Zealand and Hawaii and maybe even Arkansas. I'd like to be in Europe. I have no idea what I want to do with my life. But I have pictures in my head.

An apartment with worn glossy chestnut colored wood floor. The kind of house that is light and bright and has an sea salty fresh smell and a great view. The window open wide, a breeze winding gently through the house. A total paradise. White washed walls with rich splashes and shocks of color. Deep turquoise blue, burgundy. A yard of sand outside, and pretty glass bottles that glitter when the sun shines through them on the window sill. A soft tinkle of wind chimes from outside. Seashells and heavy thick ceramic dishes that are navy blue. A luxurious bed with fluffy white blankets and duvets and comforters and pillows galore. Walls that are in and of themselves collages or artistically crammed with photos.

I'd like to always have a book around to read, cheap fifty cent or less paper backs, a jumbled and beloved collection. I'd like to be fearlessly spontaneous and make bigger leaps than my quest to wear 12 hair clips in my hair to church today. I'd like to have furniture that has stories behind it, tall tales of lucky finds and garage sales. I'd like to have stories to tell bigger than throwing the frisbee up on the roof when a friend was over. I'd like to do a lot of things.

I'm torn between these vague desires and the Practical Becca. Focus on school. Good friends. Go to church. College. Family. Kids. Die.

Practical Becca kinda sucks right now.

There has to be a more upbeat way to end this.