Like so many high school boys, I played guitar. I was by no means any good at it, but I loved it. For ages I played on my acoustic guitar, and dreamed of owning a really nice electric. I read all the magazines. I poured over the pictures and read all the reviews. Eventually decided I wanted an Epiphone Les Paul (no, not a Gibson). I cut a picture of it out of the magazine and put it in my wallet. On long bus rides or during boring classes, I would take out the picture and stare at it. I could picture myself playing it. It was my destiny. It would be mine.
I’d like to tell you that I worked hard at a job, saved every penny, and made all sorts of sacrifices to make that dream happen for me. Or that I practiced so hard that I won it in some talent contest. I didn’t. I just wanted it so badly, and talked about it so incessantly, that my mom eventually got annoyed enough that she bought it for me.
Okay, so this is more of a squeeky-wheel-gets-the-grease than a dreams-don’t-work-unless-you-do story. I got the damn guitar. Mission accomplished.
P.S. I love you mom!