True friends buy birth control together.
Katie: Yeah, I’d totally go with you, though.
Molly: yay! my one true friend.
Molly: you can put that on your blog.
We’re gonna go to Planned Parenthood together. Because, well, yeah. It’s the thing responsible 18-year-old girls do.
But of course the conversation degenerates….
Molly: then again,
Molly: that almost sounds like you and i are having some kind of lesbian IV baby
Molly: …hmm…
Katie: Hehe.
Molly: perhaps it’s best forgotten
Katie: Um, not yet Molly. I’m not ready for kids.
Molly: haha
Molly: i thought you wanted to commit. what are you saying to me, huh?
Katie: Well, I…I want to wait to have kids until we’ve both finished school.
Molly: well that’s just fine for YOU, miss modern career girl
Molly: hahahaha
Katie: :)
Jokes aside, I have mixed feelings about getting to be a “responsible adult.” On one hand, the freedom and the knowledge that I’m mature enough to plan ahead is good. On the other…it’s kinda scary to leave momma hen’s nest and venture out into the big bad world.
I suppose this whole scary/fun thing is what every kid my age goes through.
Yeah, I still call myself a girl, a kid. I refer to my friends as kids, no matter how old they are. Because mature as I think I am, I’m just not quite able to let go.
I miss being 10 years old, when boys still had cooties and girls were still undeniably superior. I miss not having to think about birth control or college or whether or not I should consume whatever substance I’m being offered. Back then, my decisions were all whether or not to sneak a cookie from the cookie jar and, if I get caught, who to blame it on.
And I miss being fourteen and saying I’d never get married and have kids, or at least not consider it until I was secure in a career that was perfect for me.
And I miss being six, when my first best friend was a boy and we talked about dump trucks.
And I miss being fourteen, when I realized what really made me happy and I learned to lighten up.
And I miss being fifteen and discovering a whole new world of high school, where I could control my destiny and enjoy the years I’d reflect on for the rest of my life.
And I miss being three and having all sorts of bizarre [though curiously precocious] notions about the world.
And I miss being seven when I had good handwriting for my age.
But now I’m eighteen. Not really much in the whole scheme of things, but quite a lot when you’re walking the line between child and adult. I’m really lucky though. I’ve got everything I need to make it. I really have nothing to complain about.
And now I’m eighteen, and I appreciate all I’ve been through and I’m grateful for everyone in my life and I’m not a selfish bastard like I used to be.
And now I’m eighteen and I write really cheesy, introspective, puke-inducing essays like this. And I enjoy it.
