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If I had my pick, I'd be named something like Gwen, or maybe Victoria. I'd live in San Francisco. I'd be at the Fisherman's Wharf every afternoon, probably feeding the seagulls or wading my feet into the water even if it's mucky and illegal. I'd have a collection of those little bronze-colored souvenir coins that are actually your spare change all pounded together. I'd take pictures for fun and pin them up on a little cork board. I'd spend my money on those tourist telescopes every Friday just to look at the Alcatraz again, wondering if I could swim my way there. I'd live in a Victorian-styled house with ivory steps. I'd be a writer, a guitarist, an artist, a photographer, a lyricist, all at the same time. I'd be half Italian, part British and maybe a little bit of American, with blue eyes, long, wavy black hair, fair skin and pink cheeks.
But that isn't me.
It isn't me at all.
I couldn't pick. I couldn't change. I couldn't even be normal.
I couldn't live like a regular person.
I wasn't even close, and I knew I was never going to get a step closer.
Maybe things could have been different if I knew my dad. Things would have been different if my mom survived that car crash. If my dad stayed, maybe we could have been rich. I'd have tons of relatives that gave me gifts all the time. My mom would have nice green eyes and brown hair with a smile that made everything feel okay. My dad would be tall with black hair and brown eyes like mine. I would have an older brother that picked on me and a best friend that knew all my secrets.
Sometimes I'd like to think that the girl in my dreams was me. I like to believe that one day, I'd wake up and realize that my whole life was just a nightmare and I'd have my reality be my dreams.
But every morning, the only thing I think about is how I'm lucky I am they didn't come get me in my sleep.