Ways to make my life interesting enough for me to be truly literary:

• Live on the streets of San Francisco for eight months
• Acquire a brilliant, abusive boyfriend
• Join a gang
• Snap, be committed, go through electric shock treatments, get better
• Become addicted to some glamorous upper, like coke, not a depressant like alcohol or marijuana because it would make me fat, and climb up from rock bottom in a miraculous recovery
• Marry a gypsy
• Find out I am really a gypsy named Elisabeta
  
• Develop a pretty disease, like consumption, and publicly waste away in a serene setting
• Get an exotic lover
• Have an exotic baby
• Attempt suicide a few times
• Make my own clothes out of thrift-store finds and glitter
• Run away to Europe and walk around Córdoba bare-legged until someone takes me in
• Hang around Richmond until I have witnessed a few murders
• Cry in public places without my nose running
• Take care of my brother and sister after my parents suddenly die
• Grow ten inches, be discovered as a model, discover the dark fashion underworld, find out that quitting it is harder than I thought
• Sprout wings
• Pose for an up-and-coming artist who is obsessed with me
• Work as an au pair for the rich and famous, get into all sorts of scrapes with employers and yard guys alike
• Travel to México and perfect my Spanish with a laborer named Juan or Carlos
• Stop eating
• Build a beach hut near Capitola and live as a wild woman
• Wander the streets of old Savannah late at night in a white lacy dress
• Wash up on a private Greek beach disoriented and amnesiatic