a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful girl
Being an adult sucks. It's all about worrying where the last copy of your tax return went, and who's kept it from you, and if the accountant's going to judge you for not taking a photocopy, and whether or not to save for a condo because who needs all this money, anyway, any person should be allowed to do whatever the hell they want at whatever time they want so long as they're not hurting anybody, which includes themselves in six months' time when the emergency medical bill comes in, and if it's that much more than you can afford, who gives a damn, if that's the price, we live in a society, don't we?
More than that, it's about how the only person you'll ever have full, complete unbridled access to is yourself, and vice versa, and people can love you a hell of a lot but until you feel like you might actually want to get your last name changed, which is a hassle of photocopies and phasing shapes and transition times all in itself, when do I need to renew my driver's license, isn't it so terrifying to drive, people aren't going to love you as much as you want them to. As much as you need them to. And they're still going to have loved you far, far too much. (And the new last name's only going to love you as much as you love it anyway, which is not all that much, in general.)
More than that, it's about finding out what your favorite food is, after you've had a period of years, and years, and years, where you didn't really like eating anything, didn't really feel like eating anything but half the time you still did, who knows why, but had a sleeper addiction to ice cream anyway, you need to eat something sweet, but it's for the psychological hit, your brain's been dead so long because you're an adult and in the only way that matters you never even went to college, who needs to send emails, who needs to get a new email address, why don't we all just rot and die at the cellular telephone store.
More than that, it's about the fact that you're never going to stop deriding yourself for hobbies, and naps, and screen time, no matter how long you live, because you spent too long calculating and not long enough living but that makes it sound like you had a choice and you procrastinated in your hiding rather than that you were just too far up the creek of putting your grandparents' past decade of scrips into a spreadsheet, locked into the generational matrix like a useless stool chair with its legs flush against the wall and its crossbars facing the world cowardishly.
Being an adult's about saying goodbye to cute clothes and childhood participation certificate trophies for competitions you didn't care about because who cares about anything, when you're a child, and you still don't care because you're still a child, you'll shred your tax document perforations as soon as you're able and get new ones because you worked like you cared about it, once upon a time, and you want to jump out the back door more than you want to jump off a bridge and you just--
You want to live somebody else's life.
Just out of reach.
It's your own.