You know.. Some people really embrace the whole “growing up” thing. This morning, whilst wandering aimlessly with a potential fellow Toy Soldier, spreading the good word of Dr. Steel, we ran into a person we both know, but I hardly recognised. You would look at her and think, christ, how old is she? 17? 18? You look at me and wonder if I’ve finished grade ten yet.
Today in Australia, it is the 27th of November. Exactly two months until my 18th birthday. I’ve never been one to hold these so called rites of passage on any sort of pedestal, but I’m looking forward to turning 18. To quote myself “Finally the numbers shall tick over in my favour”.
But I don’t know. I’m not particularly bothered that I am sometimes mistaken for a lost child, but there’s something else that’s got me feeling that 18 shall just be another number up on the board; another decimal of pi, meaningless and never ending.
And you know, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Another number, nothing new, no responsibilities or expectations.
And liquor ay! Woo, party and all that…
I’m pretty sure I’m not going to have an 18th birthday party.
Just mail me presents.
That’ll keep me happy.