I’ve talked about growing up. I’ve expected it and been afraid of it. But the funny thing about expecting something is that, when the time comes, you’re often not as prepared as you’d like to be. 

It’s just a number. A number with associated revelations and stigmas and responsibilities. An even number for an odd time in one’s life. A number that opens doors and closes a few. 

Really, I think the only thing that matters is that I have been alive for eighteen years, my gosh, and very hopefully I will be for much longer, but so far, life has been good, I’m happy, and the people that I care about are well and breathing, and that is enough of a landmark for me to celebrate. 

(Kevin, I hope you’re okay with this)—Kevin wrote a post on turning eighteen and it’s much more eloquent and apt and he puts into words the things I can’t. 


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