When it feels familiar, it's because it is.

Something is amiss. Something is brewin and it's brewin up quick. I just can't decide if it's my worst fear or what I want most in this world.
 I've always had this view of who I would be at this age. I would be thinner. Looonnnng hair. I would be a fabulous painter and would surf often. I'd live alone in an unkempt, empty apartment in Venice beach and spend hours on my patio smoking cigarettes, painting confusing pictures of sexually inappropriate things. Mattress on the floor. Old cameras strewn about, mistreated. Beanies and bikini's in the summer. Musicians coming and going through my bedroom doors. I would take photographs of everyone I met but they wouldn't be any good. I'd live minimally and stress free. Just the essentials. A few odd jobs to keep me moving. The right friends in the right places. Free plane tickets. I'd travel often on my low income because I'd only eat veggies I'd grow in my tiny side yard. And granola bars. Lot's of them. I'd have a dog. No. I wouldn't. Too much commitment. I would own sea monkey's. I would play guitar. And the piano. Nothing would touch me. Nothing could reach me because I wouldn't stick around long enough for it to catch up. I'd miss my friends and family. I'd miss old lovers. But never enough to turn back. I'd use my library card to study film. Teach myself all the ins and outs. I'd skateboard there. I'd be the kind of person that wouldn't be bothered by all these fragmented sentences. I would only drink and smoke on special occasions because I would know addictive personalities are just bullshit for "I can't handle it all". I'd feel lonely quite often but I'd meet some randoms in Thailand and forget about it. I would live this way until I disappeared. Until I never existed.
or

I'd bar tend my way through U.C.L.A. Still Los Angeles but not the beach. I'd be at a real big girl school. I'd use my coke habit to keep myself going but I'd have total control because my dreams would be bigger than it all. I'd push push push. I'd film everything. Then I'd film it again. I'd drink vodka tonics and shave half my head. Blond. Nothing would touch me. Nothing could reach me because I wouldn't hold onto it long enough to allow it to interfere with my own plan. I'd be a relentless flirt and tease it up all night but never let 'em have it. I wouldn't have the time. Except for the young up and coming director who happened upon my trendy bar and struck up a conversation. I'd sleep with him in my claustrophobic upstairs apartment. The window would be open breezily blowing my white curtains and I'd show him my stuff. My work. He'd love it and we'd be each other's muse until he would leave me for a bi-sexual art graduate. He'd think she was unique because she trespassed to throw her graffiti art. But it'd all work itself out because of the exposure I'd get from him. With a shrug of the shoulders and one Planned B later, I'd be off to delighting little indy kids everywhere with my films.

or.....