I Have Goals - By Katelyn Lacey

I have goals. One of those goals is to be the coolest girl anyone has ever met before in their entire life. Think of the coolest person you know. I want that person to look at me and say, “Who is that human over there with the lily white freckled skin? Cheeks of rose, robust of bone, fresh of face, sly of wit? What is she doing over there? Oh, ok, I see what she’s doing now. She’s giving zero fucks, that’s what she’s doing. I wonder if she’s even capable to give a fuck? She’d probably have to work 70 hours a week to give a fuck. It’d be a full time job for that perfect redheaded creature with the fattest ass to give a fuck. And her leather jacket makes me forget that MJ ever wore one.”

I want to be the coolest girl in any room anywhere I go. I will be one day, but it’ll take some work. Some small steps that may or may not be at all obtainable but also might be, like, 100% necessary to become that cool are:

  • Every time I enter any room where a gathering is taking place, it is absolutely essential for me to be wearing sunglasses, and before I cross the threshold, I must first lean in the doorway for a notable amount of time; almost too long. I will make sure that every eye in the room looks up to me, unsure if I’m looking back at them because of the shades. After gaining the power and attention of whomever I can, I’ll then smirk and raise my eyebrows as if to effortlessly emote the words “What a bunch of fucking squares” with my face. It’s going to physically pain me to be around lames. I won’t say hey to anyone. Leaning is really cool, you guys.

  • I have to get a tranquilizer gun like, yesterday. How have I lived my entire life without one so far? And do I really need to explain why I need one? Do I need to explain why they’re cool? Well, I’m not going to because tranq guns don’t need me to. If I have to explain why, “so I rolled up with a bitch packing a tranq gun…” is the best forward to any story you could ever tell, then you don’t get to be in that story.

  • I need to figure out how to go back in time and be that girl who raps in “Money Trees” by Kendrick. You know the one. The “Love one of you bucket-headed hoes? No way” girl. The chill, female narrative role in the flawless legend of a young thug’s conscious ambitions (I mean, this essay is kind of a female narrating young conscious ambitions right? See?). I have no idea who that girl is but every time I hear that part I think “Yeah…YEAH. THIS IS SHIT I CAN move my DAMN ASS to, DANNNG!” And I just get so proud of her! But also…How come I can’t do that on a track instead of her? I can do that. I can even do the background noises. I could also add a part about the tranq gun. I could just be like, “Put that bitch to sleep, tryptophan, no pj’s” and I would totally be killing it. I’m pretty much already the dopest lyricist of our time anyway though, if we’re being real.

  • I need a best friend like Charo. Or, someone of that caliber. Fran Drescher would work. Dolly Parton. How fucking cool would I look, leaning against some lockers in a pair of shades next to Fran fucking Drescher. Do we know you?

  • I desperately need to get a little criminal record going. Or better yet, just rumors about one. Did you guys hear about that girl who straight looted all the Marshmallow Fireside candles out of Bath and Body Works with Fran Drescher and all they had was a tranquilizer gun? Then everyone she shot in the store woke up and thanked her because no one gets to take naps like that anymore and it felt like they had just eaten so many Christmas turkey dinners but without all the calories and so they paid for all the candles she stole. The police took her to jail anyway but the town started a Kickstarter to get her out and everyone was outraged and Kendrick Lamar was actually the one who ended up getting her out and paying most of her legal fees because they used to work together on his album. And then Bath and Body Works heard about what happened and decided to give her free 3-wick candles for the rest of her life for all the trouble she endured.  Fran and her actually bought matching one-piece swimsuits for all the 3-wicks they’re swimming in these days.

Do you need a 3-wick candle for your shitty smelling apartment? I could probably get you one, loser.