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Maybe I can be one of those people who photograph dogs, particularly dogs who are waiting for their owner’s to return from some important errand. When I gather enough of these photos, I’ll make huge prints and sell them at a gallery in Sydney. The exhibit will have a clever title that captures the essence of these dog’s existence, something like “Providore.” I’ll set up a table in the gallery with a box of wine, California Rolls, and homemade dog treats. And I’ll station myself at the front, watching the doors, tilted on my shoe tips, waiting for somebody, anybody, to come inside. And I’ll wait. . . and wait. . . and wait. . . and wait. . .

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Maybe I can be one of these people who photograph rice paddies? I’ll use my photos to promote traditional agriculture and question our dependence on a high-tech world. I’ll live by example and get rid of my car, my computer, and even my cooking appliances (I’ll still need my phone though, for taking pics). I’ll use my blog to preach about simplicity, minimalism, tiny houses and crap like that (another reason to keep my phone, so I can post). And I’ll better educate myself about climate change, carbon footprints, and global green initiatives (definitely need my phone here, for research).

Eh, I’ll finish this post later. My feet are soaked, my phone is running out of juice, and I gotta navigate out of this silly rice paddy.

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Maybe I can be one of those photographers who shoot old world windows. I may even get lucky and capture an old world person peeking from one of these old world windows. They will be wearing old world clothes: tunics and scarves and homespun whatevers. And they will have wizened old faces with wrinkles and old worldy eyes. And their mouths will have old world frowns. And their minds, old world thoughts. And their voices, mute. Thus, the old world will push its way into our world and into us, new worlders, who will quickly lose our minds. We’ll forget how to think and speak. Our concept of the world will grow smaller and smaller until it contains only old world notions, old world feelings, and old world wordlings. Our days will be filled with old world nothings and smoller mooch older thengs and weary old droodlings with wordily olde wortlings and lord wodden durdels oft witlings and odell woodlender lordorfenells.

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Maybe I can be one of the photographers who always shoot birds? And I’ll become a birder! I’ll wear flannel vests and duck boots and carry binoculars and memorize bird calls and put a special app on my phone.

and just when I thought I couldn’t get nerdier. . .

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Maybe I can be one of those photographers who take photos of old jazz clubs? I’ll dress like a hipster, smoke rolled-up cigarettes, and start calling people cat. My foot will be tapping. My fingers will be snapping. And my best photos will hang in the back of smokey, after-hours clubs where patrons will be too sauced to even notice. Not that I’ll care. I will be an artiste!

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Maybe I can be one of those photographers who shoot pictures of old fences in the dunes. I’ll hike for miles in stifling heat. I’ll get coated in sand and bitten by flies. I’ll suffer from thirst and hunger. And then, while seeking out the perfect photo, I will die. Years later, somebody will discover my wind-swept bones. They will find inspiration. They will take a photo. And the cycle will continue.

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Maybe I can be one of those photographers who shoot photos of dark and ominous skies. I’ll become a storm chaser, seeking out swirling clouds and bursts of rain. I’ll sleep in my car, never change my clothes, and grow a long grizzled beard. I’ll sniff the ground and taste the wind. I’ll detect changes in air pressure, using only my mind. And when the lightening crashes and the thunder booms, I’ll appear out of nowhere, poof, and shoot an amazing photo. People will call me, the wizard.

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Maybe I can be one of those photographers who shoot photos of amazing city skylines? I’ll make prints of the photos and hang them in my remote cabin in the woods where I live. Any time I get the urge to move to a big city where there are oodles of people and always exciting things to do, I’ll stare at these photos until the feeling goes away. It will work, right?

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Maybe I can be one of those photographers who shoot pictures of scraggly trees in west Texas? Then I can sell them to a hotel chain where they will hang them in bathrooms, next to the mini-fridges, or above the king-sized beds. Then when visitors enter the hotel room and flip on the lights, they will see my photos. They probably won’t look very long. I mean, these are just scraggly trees in barren Texas landscapes. They certainly won’t wonder what the photo means. Or consider buying a print. Instead they will likely flip on the TV. Order room service. Go to bed. And never think of the photo again.

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Maybe I can be one of those people who only shoot photos of white-painted poles on the beach. I’ll create a website with thousands and thousands of white-painted poles on the beach. The photos will be shot from beaches across the world. The Caribbean. The Mediterranean. The South Seas. These photos will become extremely popular. Everyone who loves the beach, but is land locked, will purchase one. They will cherish the photo and hang it in their home. Likely in their bathroom.