I Miss Dreaming

I remember the days when I was convinced- absolutely convinced - that I was going to be a professional hockey player.

Not just a professional hockey player, mind you. The best pro hockey player. Putting Gretzky to shame and all of that. But not only that. On top of being the best thing to happen to the hockey world since Alexander Ovechkin sliced bread, I was convinced that I was going to be a children's novelist, presumably somewhere in between banging my ultra-hot wife and scoring three hat tricks every game.

I realized, looking at a calendar at work today, that I have a month left in my senior year of high school, give or take. It was actually kind of scary. It seems like a few weeks ago that I decided to go to Plano over West, to tryout for West's hockey team, to write every day during third grade, to choose between Charmander, Squirtle, and Bulbasaur for the first time. That I'm here right now, typing this, using language that might make George Carlin blush (God rest his soul, which when you think about it is pretty ironic), is pretty fucking daunting.

What happens if years 19-60 go the same way? What happens if my life rockets by me at an "ohfucktoofasttoofast" pace? My future wife, my future kids, my future million dollar sports car, all just a few seconds in an increasingly faster set of minutes.

I'm still excited about going to Missouri next year to really start my own life, but I'm just so scared about it as well. I just want to walk home after school again, run around for a bit, play hockey against an invisible goalie, then go to sleep before the days turn.

I want to be able to look at a math problem and go "This shit's easy!" (like I did oh so many times in elementary school) instead of "How many paper cuts would I have to give myself to bleed out?"

I want to be told things will be alright without knowing that they won't be.

I want to keep thinking that girls have cooties and should be avoided.

I want to dream again. I want to look to my future and see an expansive life full of wonder, money, supermodels, more money, and then the supermodel bit again. I don't want to see a pinprick that requires I stay in a straight line until it becomes a gaping hole.

I want it to be easy. As easy as it was. But I know that however hard I try to make it that way, I'll never be there again. I looked at that calendar and realized that I haven't sold my bestseller yet, I haven't been lauded as the second coming of Wayne Jesus Gretzky, and I haven't met any drop dead gorgeous women who'll run away with me to some far off place just because I can feign a British accent and I have a holographic Charizard card.

To tell you the truth, I'm kind of terrified. I'm 18 and I don't have supreme control over the world, the masses bowing to my feet.

At some point, something went seriously wrong.