I want to be like my idol, Justice Ginsburg. I want to be fair-minded and dedicated and compassionate, and look great doing it. Only, of course, without going to law school. I want Ruth’s spirit of justice and curiosity and not taking any shit.

I want a big life. I want to fall in love, not like what happened with Callum, which sometimes felt wonderful but more often like an educated guess, as if while I was kissing him I needed to remind myself: this is love, right? I want to know I’m in love, no, not even know it—I want to understand why it’s called being in love. I want to be overwhelmed by the miracle of another human being. Love is like God—it’s the place where need and rumor and dreams become something else entirely, something sacred, something beyond questions or arguments or therapy. Ruth Ginsburg and chocolate and oxygen and God and love: the real things.

And beyond that, beyond the blissful selfishness of love, and I know that I have no right to ask for any of this, but here goes: I want more. I want to stay me, as ridiculous as that might sound, but I want to make a difference in the world and have the best time, without being torn apart by worry and fear twenty-four hours a day. I want to be of service and create beauty and see if I can convince myself that magic exists and can be shared. Not spell casting, wand-waving magic, although I’m open to anything, but the more available magic of neon-bright crepe paper and cheap tinsel and helping other people, not to forget their very real problems, which can be insulting, but to let them know that another human being cares enough about them to find the right doctor and take them for chemo and find a great playlist and simply be there and listen, without offering useless advice or ever saying “I know just how you feel.”

I want what maybe everyone wants: to make being human feel like a superpower. And yes, I know that’s beyond corny, but that’s why I’m only telling God, who only rolls His eyes to cause thunder.

I want to stop listening to the other, snickering, undeniably sane demons, who hiss things like “I don’t think so” and “Oh, please” and “Carter Ogden, who do you think you are, I mean, do you really think you can fall in love and change the world, when you still can’t decide whether boldly patterned socks are ever a good idea?”