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March 1, 2001

Some people dream of mansions in Malibu, I dream of a truckers bar in Texas.  Some greasy spoon roadside cafe that plays rockabilly music where I can be a waitress.  Smile at all the travelers, have co-workers named Barbara or Shelly, and a steady stream of cowboy boyfriends.  I'd live in a trailer, Id get off work at eight o'clock, and go drink Miller Genuine Draft at some other hick bar.  Id stare at the mountains in the distance and think that I couldnt do any better on the other side than I could do here.  I could be content.  I could have a sister who worked at a bank, and was constantly badgering me to open up a saving account with a 7.5% savings rate.  I wouldnt understand, but Id trust her so she could make her quota, and everything would be fine.  Id be among the normal people, where a guy could look into your eyes and tell you I love you, and you could tell that he meant it, not that he was a really good actor.

  I could let the twenty-five years fade into some distant sepia toned memory of who I used to be, a long time ago.  And I could be content.  Which, when you get right down to it, if it was a toss up between content and happy, well, content would do just fine.  Content includes happy.  Content is happy plus time.  Happy is nothing further than this hour, than this moment.  If happy is measured in hours, content is measured in months.  Maybe even years.  I could be happy in L.A. for one night.  One magical night, one night that would be the stuff that dreams and legends are made of.  I could be content anywhere else.  What the hell am I still doing here?