Between diving into the espinaca dip and deep dishing on our agreed distaste for the dirty talk diction, an old friend and I caught up over my break. It was more refreshing than applying a heavy coat of Mango Burt's Bees. And DAS refreshing. She brought up some good points. One being, that I've changed. A lot. I know I have. The pseudo anklebiter that bounced from hookah bars to musicals, high on the organic energy of life is no mo. I wish that it could be enough. But it's not anymore. Not because it's too expensive, but because once replaced, it can never be reproduced. We get older and with each passing moon, we unconsciously fold the panorama of our adolescence into origami, filling canisters with these creatures of nostalgia until they brim over. It is only then that we wake to foreign temperaments and realize we have jettisoned these sacred vessels to the moon.
I was blessed with a semi-charmed pupilage, but I somehow convinced my fool of a élan vital that along with my diplomas, I had also graduated from that part of my life, mostly scar free. Right? Riiiiiii-ong. WHERE THE FUCK IS MY DIPLOMA PROVING THAT I WAS DONE, THAT I PASSED WITH PRETTY PASTEL COLORS? Nonexistent, apparently. We're knitted armor for our adult identities, yet when we come home, they unravel with the slightest grievance. For the family is too blunt an instrument to ever stay perfectly compact.
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