I’ve been having the spine-chilling realization that my birthday is in twenty-seven days. To be quite honest, all my life I have been excited for this actual birthday, but no longer am. No physical change is going to transform me nor will my personality be altered. Apparently, I am already being treated like a mere adult who could possibly be married or have children or be experienced in many things.
Just today I was given advice by a counselor about the dangers of clubbing, date rape drugs, and first dates.
“I don’t think I’ll be doing anything of the sort,” I said. “I don’t even drink.”
Then I had to fill out forms and I don’t think I’ve felt so special when it comes to replying to questions about myself before.
College is an ever-increasing thought in my mind these days. Bigger campus. Better library. People. People. People. Exams. Exams. Exams.
Possible failure? Time to erase the pessimism. I’ll probably do all right.
When speaking to the counselor, he told me a story about a lad who had been so drunk to the point of spending the night in the hospital. He said I would be in the same situation. Like being around drunken people.
“How?” I asked with a suspicious tone. I have no patience to hang around drunken people.
He talks about me having relationships in college and parties and I just want to shove a towel in his mouth.
Slow down, sir. I…am a very different person. I know that doesn’t explain much, but don’t assume things. Stop trying to find me a potential partner.
I still feel like a child. Is that so wrong?
My uptight, prudish attitude doesn’t seem to amaze many. I’m in a generation where everything is free and accepted, but values are forgotten. Or morals really.
And I still continue to be proud of myself.
The worst thing I have even done is have a few sips of wine and get tipsy.
I dreamed of my eighteenth birthday when I was twelve and
it seemed like an eternal wonder. It was much too slow and much too fast. Nothing is changing and everything is changing.
I am getting closer to my career and my dreams hopefully. And, sorry, papers, I don’t have work savvy. I’m not mentally prepared. I want to study more about my passions; I want most of my time to be devoted to it. I want nothing to push me off my educational carriage ride.
How did I even make it this far? It’s not a complaint, just a question. I was so ready to give it all up last year, the year before, and the year before that. Education has been a helpful distraction and motivator.
I know what I’m writing is nothing new. It’s just part of my life experience. I’m growing up, but I’m not very stable. Hell, I’ll get there.
It’s close. What was I even waiting for back then? Nothing is happening. I can’t become independent; not now.
The world is full of clowns and boogie monsters. I’m afraid. Actually, the world is infested with spiders. I’m frightened.
The cowardly fear of growing up kept me awake at midnight a day before New Year’s. I’m not getting my years back. Just a receipt of all my actions and angst.
These have been some of the best years of my life. God, they were awful, but I was going through changes! (Remark my Sabbath reference. I have always wanted to make this reference.)
Dears, always do write things down. Whether it is about spaghetti dinner or a teacher or how terrible it all is, just write it all down. Years later, you’ll find yourself giggling and resting your cheek on your palm when reading your detailed memories. Add a few more decades and you’ll have a Cinema Paradiso moment.
I’ve gotten closer to myself in the past eight years.
Life is a gas. It can pop at any second.
You’ll lose interest and love and friends, but make it all worthwhile before the pop.
(I’m just going to guess gases pop.)
Even though turning eighteen doesn’t seem like that big of a deal anymore, I’m still expecting one hell of a present.