I came home frustrated today, because the gas station refused to accept my passport as valid photo identification and wouldn't sell me cigarettes. Do I LOOK like I'm under 18? Do I LOOK sneaky enough to make a fucking passport for the express purpose of illegally obtaining cigarettes? Dude, whatever!
I am extremely sick of being 20 years old. Not old enough to drink, and yet old enough to die for my country if I so desire? Fuck 20. Fuck the realm of teenagerism that seems to follow me everywhere I go, taunting me with, "ha ha, you're still a kid..."
On my way home, chewing a Milky Way bar and clutching the Camel menthols I bought at an old and trusted gas station, I made up my mind: on my next birthday: May 28th, 2001, I am going to turn 24. Yes, that's right; I'm going to become 24. People will stop asking me if I'm in school, because by 24, it's okay to be out of school. People will stop asking, "why don't you drink? Oh, you're not old enough?" Anybody who asks my age is going to have to take it on faith that I'm 24.
Why 24? Because 24 is respected. *I* don't give a shit about age: mine or anybody else's. I do, however, resent being judged, classified, and categorized by a bunch of fucking morons who think 20 is too young to be smoking and who tell me I'm too young to be dating Norman, and who freak when they hear I'm not in college learning my trade.
Honestly, I'm not sure I can pull it off. I don't look 24 yet. Perhaps six and a half months and a new haircut will help. We shall see what happens.
Upon reaching my house, I came upon an unexpected gift: a kitten was lying on my steps.
I became acquainted with this kitten before. Like today, she'd been curled up in the hallway outside my apartment. I'd had no idea how she'd gotten in, but speculated that she must have climbed in the upstairs window. Of course, now, the upstairs window is closed and locked. Fucking WEIRD.
She's quite feisty, actually: black with a long diamond-shaped white stripe trailing down her nose. She's quite playful, and seems to like exploring and cuddling, like cats are supposed to.
I left her in the hallway last time, and she was gone by the next morning. I don't know where she went or how she got there, but she was gone, and, relieved, I let her go. I don't know how to take care of a cat.
(But, I decided if she came back, I'd find a way to keep her, and I'd call her Sabina Sweetpea.)
(She's ba-ack...)
It appears I am supposed to have a kitten, and it appears that Sabina Sweetpea has chosen me. Currently, she is locked into Peter's old bedroom so that she doesn't eat my bird, whom she's been stalking for half an hour...
Oh dear...
~Helena*
"Twenty-four and there's so much more..." --Neil Young, "Old Man."