How to Be Magical

To be magical,

begin by admitting you want to be.

Say it plainly.

Say it loudly.

Next, choose mischief.

Choose crazy.

Choose chaos.

Choose the kind of joy that leaves a mark.

Give blood,

not out of altruism,

but for the free snacks—

juice boxes, dried fruit, crackers,

the strange intimacy of being

medically supervised.

Scream-sing Taylor Swift.

Mumble your favorite Snoop Dogg lines.

Do this in a karaoke bar

lit like a confession booth,

sticky with spilled secrets.

Order cocktails with names

that sound like inside jokes—

Hanky Panky, Monkey Gland—

drink them because they exist,

because you can.

Trust chance.

Be Tommy the Pinball Wizard:

blindfolded, earplugged,

hands out, flippers flying,

believing fate has excellent timing.

Recite your favorite poems

in a coffee shop that refuses to give the Wi‑Fi password,

where the barista misspells your fake name

on purpose.

This is important. Let yourself be misnamed.

Skip dinner.

Order dessert first.

One fork, three cakes,

layered, frosted, ridiculous.

Excess is part of the lesson.

Sit in the park

and invent criminal backstories

for strangers passing by.

Assume intrigue.

Assume everyone is more interesting

than they appear.

Use broken crayons.

Draw masterpieces.

Lower your standards until joy fits inside them.

If you’re brave, visit a fortune teller

and ask intensely specific questions

about a future that might never happen.

If you’re not, sit quietly in a dark theater

pretending you don't exist.

Notice what happens anyway:

a laugh escapes, a thought sparks,

a tiny thrill nudges your chest.

This is success.

The point is not permanence.

The point is being magical on purpose.