My Personal Goals

Can I fill in the blanks later?

Since birth, they all want to know:  what are your goals?  It's pretty simple when you're a baby.  A nice bottle of formula.  A nice clean diaper.  A nice nap.  It's pretty simple when you're a toddler, too.  A nice PB&J.  A nice glass of milk.  A nice run through the sprinklers.  Once you hit school, the goal thing gets trickier.  A nice teacher who doesn't humiliate you daily.  A nice game of tether ball. A nice bike with 10 speeds, but five will do.  By high school, goals take on a life of their own.  A nice group of friends who tell you your ass doesn't look big in those high-waisted jeans.  A nice boyfriend who understands that Laura Nyro comes first.  A nice high school graduation where the guy in back of you doesn't puke his guts out, because he's sh*t-faced. A nice college to attend.  A nice professor who lets you pass Astronomy, even though you couldn't tell a supernova from a black hole.  A nice part-time job where they don't fire you for talking to friends who stop by to say hi.  A nice diploma.  Dear God.  It never ends.  A nice apartment.  A nice full-time job where they don't fire you for asking that prick nicely not to smoke a cigar, for chrissakes.  A nice wedding.  A nice marriage.  A nice career.  A nice couple of kids.  A nice temple that doesn't expect you to speak Hebrew.  A nice house that doesn't crumble in an earthquake.  A nice bunch of neighbors you don't have to report.  A nicer house.  A nicer everything.  Let's face it.  Goals are exhausting.  These days, my personal goals are pretty simple.  Scaled-back.  Downsized.  More humble.  More in the moment.  More Zen.  I want to achieve three things.  Just three.  That's all.  If I can make these three things happen, I'll be the happiest SJG. Satisfied in every way.  All I want is this:  I want to be worshipped.  I want to be adored.  I want to be exalted. Call me misguided, but I think I've earned the right to be bowed down to, at regular intervals, throughout the day.