I want to travel.
I want to go to every exotic place I’ve watched documentaries about. 
I want to ride a bike down a ragged lonely road in Italy. 
I want to go on an African safari and live in a tree house. 
I want to learn to salsa from a handsome Columbian local. 
I want to eat creamy hot fondue in Marseille, hold a glass of wine and pretend to be francaise.
I want to have a pet penguin and keep him in my freezer. 
I want to lie in the shade of a big oak tree in the middle of nowhere and read a book. 
I want to wear a long white skirt and spin and drop 
I want to go to New York and wear a ‘I love N Y’ t-shirt and do crazy touristy stuff. 
I want to let my hair down and jump on a trampoline 
I want to go to Japan just to see if sushi can get any better than it is! 
I want to play hide and seek in my grandfather’s house again
I want to write a book and then sign a copy of it for people I love. 
I want to say something really witty that someone might put in The Chicken Soup Series. 
I want to go to a posh restaurant in a cocktail dress and wine and dine.
I want to sing to a huge audience that is extremely quiet and well-seated. 
I want to write about my life in great detail without omitting a single bit. 
I want to run a marathon. 
I want to learn to fly a kite decently. 
I want to laugh till I cry when daddy tickles me.
I want to sleep in a round bed. 
I want to have my own barbie doll. 
I want to stop writing this post. 
I want to stop wanting so much. 
I want to be less wishful. 
I want to be less. 
I want to be. 
I want to. 
I want.

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