the kind of thing only seen in scented, glossy magazines

I can see myself, back in the day, sitting on the 2nd floor of Patterson Hall (the all girl's freshman dorm at USC). My roommate, Leigh Ann and I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning almost every night. What were we doing? Watching some show about Tommy Hilfiger's daughter who had money coming out of her junk and sing/screaming Celine Dion and Barbara Streisand duets. Dude, do you remember that show??



*the rich girls*



*the p-hall girls*

I can also see myself, listening to John Mayer's "City Love" on repeat - daydreaming. I envisioned myself. For some reason it would be at night. Maybe a little rainy, for dramatic effect. Over a candle-lit dinner, I would sit. With my boyfriend, who probably looked something like John Mayer, and even had his voice. He would be a struggling singer, or maybe an actor. We'd have to share an apartment because we were so poor, but it wouldn't matter because we'd be so in love that we wouldn't have it any other way.

I was Lydia. I would have about 16 toothbrushes lying around all over the place, taking up tons of space. Of course my long, blonde hairs would be all over his personal possessions, because I shed like nobody's business. I'd have some job. Doing something. I'd even wear his clothes to work, because it would be the sort of job, where you can throw on a button down 3 sizes too big and maybe some boxers and just GO.

While at the aforementioned candle-lit dinner, we'd probably have too much wine or sangria or pabst blue ribbon. He'd think about proposing but instead, we'd just go home and spoon to the sound of sirens.

Yeah, that's how it would be when I got to New York City.