I wish I didn't need planners and lists. They smother me in their attempts to mold me into the conformity my father has long pushed me towards. My true desire, my only real longing, is to be able to live only on creativity and love. I wish to sit in my room or my art studio and create, to live on rehearsals and live in paint stained gauchos that I've had for way too long. I want to roll around and stew in my own artistic eccentricities. I read "Tropic of Cancer" and felt one singular emotion for all of Miller's trials and tribulations: pure, unadulterated envy. It just is not possible to live this way anymore. I need lists, calendars, structure, and I hate myself for it. An artist can not make rent on her talents alone. She must capitalize on them, and this calls for auditions, rehearsals, deadlines, interviews, and I must write them all down, because heaven forbid I miss one. So now, I am trapped by own paradox, bound to datebooks and planners and schedules, fearing they will smother my naturally free spirit.