Today is my birthday, and so far I am probably the world's classiest and most mature seventeen year old the world has ever seen. I woke up and felt the odd, immediate impulse to empty the dishwasher. I spent the morning working on physics homework and an application to a summer theater program at Emerson college. My birthday presents were for a super sophisticated, classy individual and included the Anna Karenina DVD, a cashmere sweater and cardigan, and a mountain of classical literature (let's just call the giant book of Flash Gordon comics and copy of Seventeen magazine classic for the purposes of my point, shall we?) And now I'm blogging. What am I, an adult or something? I sort of feel like one. I was even nice to my relatives, including the aunt who likes to post personal questions on my Facebook wall. This is so strange, but I think I've made a transformation overnight. Last night I was watching iCarly and reading erotic lesbian fanfiction on my Droid, and today I have pulled back my hair into a sensible ponytail and am casually reading my paperback of Lolita. My girlfriend, known to some as the World's Greatest Human Being, bought me a new copy for my birthday because she knew I had lent the old one to my ex while we were dating and am now too afraid to ask for it back.
Back to my point, I am getting old. I'm not sure how I feel about it. On one hand, it feels good to actually get things done for a change. On the other hand, am I not allowed to make poop jokes anymore? Poop jokes are like 40 percent of the things that come out of my mouth. Maybe I can just call it "fecal matter" now. That'll sound intelligent, no matter what disgusting bodily function I'm describing.
No comments:
Post a Comment