Everyone’s in a rush and I’m crawling blind with no place to be. I want to be told I’m real and I mean something and then I want to make it true. I want to be able to sell my soul to passersby and to make a shiny coin for my trouble. I want to walk through traffic and come out the other side unscathed. I want to break glasses and threaten people and wake up the next morning in a jail cell and not remember what I did. I want to drive trucks and trains and scream the words to every song at the top of my lungs. I want to endure and overcome. I want adventures with dog and Ben in toe and I want to be the character in the book that everyone responds to. I want to feel sexy and innocent. I want to be wanted and to want. And numbers.. I don’t need numbers. I don’t want them. Numbers try to tell you and others who you are and they let people fake their way into a false sense of security. And then you blink and you’re thirty. You’re driving too fast and you can’t count with two hands how many drinks you’ve had; how many people you’ve slept with; how many calories; how much it costs; and before you know it you’re just a phone number, an email address or an 8-digit number in payroll.