a 'someday' wishful thought:

when i grow up, i want to buy a house. in that house, i'd like a big bedroom for myself, with a nice bath connected to it. i'd also like three other bedrooms: one for my possibility of adopting a child (or a child of my own that does not have a father, but does have a biological father), and one for the possibility of adopting friend-guests for the night. the third bedroom will be small, quaint, and cozy. located closer to my bedroom than the room of my possible child. it will be a small study, and the furniture will be plush, cozy, sophisticated, and mahogany. there will be where my own library of books reside.

just because most people don't read books anymore does not mean that i shouldn't. i'm not the majority, either, and if you didn't know that by now, then you do not know me. but then again, there is a possibility that you really don't know me, and also the possibility that i don't know you either. i've no clue if it will remain that way or not. the future is a que sera, sera for me. inconsequentially, what will remain will be myself, my ambition to own a house, and my ambition of a study-library in my-ambition-to-own-a-house.

among the list of books, i will definitely have:
- Art and Lies. Jeanette Winterson
- The Book of Salt. Monique Truong
- The Great Gatsby. Francis Scott Fitzgerald
- Another Marvelous Thing. Laurie Colwin
- Chocolate: A Bittersweet Saga of Light and Dark. Mort Rosenblum
...
and as many Thoreau and Emerson essays and works as i can possibly, greedily acquire.

yes, there will be brain-candy books, too. and yes. i intend on proudly declaring, in a nonchalant tone, "Why yes, I've read all of them. If you're interested, I could make a recommendation." an undertone of haughtiness. i love it.