Simone

I know trying to follow a plan is useless and impossible and sometimes more detrimental to the course of your life than any unplanned misstep, but what’s the harm in simply having one? Seemingly tangible fantasies help me dream at night.

In 10 years I will be 27 years old. Brian Jones and Kurt Cobain and Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin all died at 27, but hopefully I won’t. Truthfully, they were all a lot more famous at 27 than I’d ever like to be. I guess that’s most important.

At 27, I will only be a little bit famous. Fame garners respect and notability. Respect and notability get you places in society. Ideally, I will be some sort of artist, so the visibility that comes with fame could be important too. But I don’t want to end up experimenting with harder drugs, having some sort of legal hiccup, and having to apologize to my younger audiences the next morning via Facebook. That kind of fame is invasive and scary. It includes high expectations and challenging obstacles. (Kind of like growing up.)

How will I be a little bit famous by 27? I’ll start off with a thankless job writing for TV. This environment will be predominantly male, but rather than shrivel under the weight of The Patriarchy, I will rise, as my sisters Liz Lemon and Mary Tyler Moore have. In my free time, I will write screenplays and shop them. My written stories will go on to the screen, and then to festivals, garnering awards and praise, but not enough to make me a household name. (Just kidding! What screenwriter is a household name?) Teenage girls will read my Wikipedia page and be inspired. My male peers will hide their jealousy, but not well enough to evade my bullshit sensor. (That’s another thing about future Simone. Her bullshit sensor is going to be amazing.)

I will live in New York City. New York City is the best city in the world. And yes, maybe I’ve lived in a 15-mile radius of and around New York City for my entire life, but I don’t think my opinion is biased. I’m probably not going to be able to afford Manhattan or Brooklyn, and Queens is going to be gentrified before I know it. Probably the Bronx and Staten Island, too. (I might actually be screwed on this front.) But that can be pondered later. The world has time to change to fit my needs.

I will have the best friends ever. I know this because I’ve heard grown-up friendships are like high school friendships, except a lot more options and lot less guilt about dropping deadbeats. This excites me. I’ve done well in high school friendships so far, but with more options and less guilt, I can’t begin to fathom how amazing things will be. At 27, I will club, party, read, brunch, jog, dinner party, binge watch, swim, bathe, dance, sing, with the best people ever.

I need to ensure that at 27 I don’t constantly say things like “I’m so old” or “I’m so close to 30.” Yes, 27 is kind of old! But why waste all that time stating what is already clear to everyone? And why waste three years complaining about being 30 before it even happens? I’m going to be the least annoying twenty-something that ever existed.

And finally, boys. There will be so many boys. Excuse me—men. It will have started in college, my professors, Division III athletes, T.A.s, Marxist fuckbois, et cetera. And then I’ll make it to the city, and there will be endless possibilities, of which I’ll make great use. I won’t go into detail here because I plan to lead a spontaneous and casual sex life and outlining it would go against the point.

Maybe outlining anything goes against the point. ♦