Disney World is supposed to be the place where dreams come true. And for some people, I’m sure it is. Having cartoon characters follow you around all day, waiting in lines that give you ample time to read Ulysses start to finish, cowering in fear on “It’s a Small World,” and screaming with joy on “Space Mountain” are only a few of the thrills my ten-year-old self took away from the place.
But I’m twenty-one now. I’m moved on to bigger pursuits, and, more relevantly, bigger dreams.
No, I haven’t read Ulysses yet.
I am, however, going to see Neil Diamond in July.
My aunt and her mother (two of the best concert partners I can think of) heard about my deep devotion to Neil, and we bought our tickets this afternoon.
Can you hear my ecstatic screaming from your house? Can you hear “Cherry, Cherry” blasting from Mac’s dear silver speakers? Can you hear my sister moaning in disgust as she tries to counter with some of her modern devil music?
I’m excited, you might say.