Magical Thinking

Tonight, I'm thinking nutty things.
If I subscribed to the New York Times and The New Yorker and maybe The Paris Review, I'd be smarter, right?  I'd be able to talk about things.  You know, things.  Little snippets of things, and then people would ask, well, where did you hear about that?  I'd be all - in the Times.  Clearly.  Because most people that live directly in line with a Boston Market dumpster are the Times leading demographic.
If I lost ten more pounds, I'd be happier.  I've done this before.  I've whittled myself down to nothing and then been shocked to find that while people pay me attention and say, aren't you just the littlest thing, I grow increasingly, hysterically afraid of food and become totally abnormal.
If somebody loves me, then I'm worth more.  I guess people theoretically do love me.  I sometimes hear people say that, the sentiment, I love you.  But I feel like I should be in the cupcake dress with a veil on the head and a diamond on the finger belonging to somebody, the mother of their french speaking twins, and then!  Then I'll be happy.
Or something ultra nuts - if I am ridiculously nice then better things will happen.  Like when this lady wanted to take advantage of me and have me edit for her super cheap and I can't - I had to stick to my guns on price - and then I became so afraid that in telling her that, I was condemning myself to be rejected forever with my own writing.
But I'm trying to be real here - being a super thin and well read person that somebody loves enough to marry who is overly nice sounds great on paper - but being myself has to be enough.  Somehow this eating disordered, manic, friendly, sort of selfish, sometimes vain, under informed, unattached, magical thinker has to just be enough.
So stop your ifs, Rachel, and get back to work.