I am a seven-year-old in a twenty-one year-old body, and sometimes that’s not a good thing.
I typically pride myself in being too immature to understand that openly admitting that I am secretly one-third my biological age is probably not a good thing, but some days, trying hard not to grow up comes back to bite me in the butt.
Sure didn’t see that one coming, did I?
Normally, my life involves being mesmerized by the analytic break-down of children’s literature and its meaning, getting lost in the nostalgia of Disney and its social implications, and serenading strangers. Kid stuff, am I right?
But sometimes, finding my inner-Peter Pan means saying and doing a lot of stupid stuff. (No, serenading strangers is not stupid. I have the voice of an angel, so you’re welcome.)
—I’ve wondered for a while now: is there an invisible line of life that you cross at some point, and people stop questioning if you are right or wrong based on your age and presumed knowledge/experience in the world? Or do we all bull shit our way through the rest of our lives until we die and can no longer be proven wrong, or become Gandhi?—
I guess I’m basically doomed to live my life out blubbering and bumbling my way through social interactions. Yay.
The worst part, though, is when I fail at writing. For me, that’s like Peter Pan letting Captain Hook defeat him with a sword, or President Snow pwning Katniss with a bow and arrow. Maybe I shouldn’t metaphorically compare my writing to a weapon, but seriously, if someone tried to mug me on the street, I would cut them. With my words. On pen and paper. (thanks for the phrase, Jay.)
So I guess I’m only as strong as the world is literate, but my biggest enemy actually isn’t any physical being outside of myself at all. My own worst enemy (forgive the cliche and song reference) is myself when it comes to writing. Sometimes, I make drunk decisions about my writing completely sober, which leads me back to the idea that my brain is sometimes only as developed as a seven-year-old’s. (My apologies to any seven-year-old reading this; you deserve better than a comparison to me. Go read some Shakespeare and talk about the use of jibberish in Lewis Carroll. It will heal your soul.)
You see, as an English major I’ve gotten very good at running my mouth via my hands. So well, in fact, that I’ve apparently convinced you I’m good enough at it for you to have read this far into this post.
But running my mouth can also make me a complete ass, in the most passive way possible. And I hate it.
Then why do it?
Well, most of the time I don’t know I’m even doing it until suddenly I realize the ground is no longer under my feet, and the rocky abyss beneath the cliff that is my manners is coming up fast towards me. Also, I grow really ugly, hairy ears and start barking like a donkey.
Okay, maybe that last bit was a poorly exaggerated joke.
But this is where my seven year-old ways really start to kick in, because not only do they inhibit my ability to act like a grown adult, my obsession with Disney princesses has made it physically impossible for me to be anything but nice, and when I’m not nice, I just feel horrible. Frankly, when I’m not nice, I kind of wish the metaphorical cliff of manners that I’m falling off of was real.
That’s a bit extreme.
Yeah, well, I’m seven years-old on the inside and still very much a drama queen.
Just another reason why my life is like: People–can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em.
Life is rough. Talking is rough. Writing is most permanently rough. But I still love it. And you, dear one-anonymous-person-who-reads-my-blog. If I ever say anything mean about you, just know that somewhere I am sitting, staring at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out which pair of shoes best matches my horribly ugly ass-ears.
I hope your life and writing are swell. Maybe the next time we meet, I’ll be well away from that metaphorical cliff.