So the other day I’m chatting with my uber-cool tenant Kathleen, who’s a teacher in Evanston and thus on spring break this past week. Which means that she gets to sleep in later than the usual 5:30 AM that she normally gets up at. But Friday she’s awoken by the loud sound of a text message.
A goal is a dream with a deadline.
Which would be bad enough on its own, this kind of horrendously sappy platitude.
It becomes truly something horrible to be woken up by when you consider that it came from Kathleen’s unemployed transgendered female brother who hasn’t worked in the last three years and isn’t out on the street only because Kathleen sends him money.
And apparently his goal for that morning was to bake biscuits. No, really, biscuits.