I’ve watched the rain droplets summon on the window for thirty seconds now. It’s dark outside, so I cannot see much. These four walls that surround me, this big brown house that holds them, is cold. Do I hold myself and cry under cotton sheets or do I perform cartwheels across the room? Do I laugh and smile, or do I hang my head and cry? Do I thank God for another year or do I get angry for another year closer to no more years?
I glance at my phone screen.
In less than 24 hours, I will be an adult.
I will be eligible for lots of things: voting, driving, drinking, real doctor appointments with real doctors, being compared to Kylie Jenner at 18, two numbers closer to not remaining a teen, expected not to burp in public, be told to “act your age”, making life altering choices, having my own *~insurance~*.
Being sixteen is so young sounding, and seventeen sounds so transitory, while eighteen just screams “awkward adult.” The thought of remaining in that bubble frightens and excites me. I want it to pop, but I enjoy the thin film of protection it offers. It seems I am bursting with contradictions tonight.
Reader, we have grown together. Being seventeen has taught me many things, and as a tradition, I’d like to share those things with you as long as some of my fondest memories and moments.
So this is it. I’ve remained a nuisance for 6, 205 days and it has been fantastic. I’m more happy than I am sad, and I’m more grateful above it all. Another rotation around the sun, and god damn it was great.