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In continuance of a Facebook rant that I'll probably delete: 

During my freshman year at HTHS, Mr. Noble asked my Public Speaking class to crisply define at what age one becomes an adult. As you might assume, the most popular answers were 18 and 21 -- smoking, drinking and gambling (not necessarily in that order). I believe my response was that it was "all relative" and dependant on various circumstances. You could have adult responsibilities at nine for all I knew. However, Mr. Noble, I would now like to add the addendum of "26" to my paper presentation. "All relative" right on, but "adult" seems to be stamped in peculiar and permanent fonts these days.
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This is not to boast my responsibilities these days. I fuck up, become more of an asshole when I don't follow-through, write e-mails that are difficult and make me wonder if I regret them - though I do try to avoid doing that via text message, which I think comes with this "26" territory.

I dance with glitter on my nose and love it. But the pressures that have arisen I find quite interesting. Pressure to fill my time with important people and keep myself busy. Maybe that's the New Yorker in me, but sitting still is becoming hard, yet so much more enjoyable when its deserved.

Then again, I've always been busy. Gym, cheer, dance. Rehearsal, research paper. Relationship > gas. I've never been one to idle. So why the pressure now, the rush? Maybe adulthood is the sickness you get in your stomach when you know you can do better than your current situation. More money, more happiness, more knowledge. It's the greed of age. 

The pressure to make money and live in a nice place where I can feel confident that when I leave no one will fuck up my shit HAS ALREADY BEEN IN EXISTENCE. Yet, my shit still keeps getting fucked with. The pressures of my ticking clock and whatever else comes with bodily changes is annoying, but is part of this stream into adulthood acceptance? Or rather, the adult experience.

Today I shouted the word "Slut" at work. It was in context and not directly towards anybody (in reference to a television character actually). Ask me if I cared. Nope. Maybe the "not caring" is also considered adulthood too. Or maybe it is juvenile of me. Or maybe its an excuse for too much coffee. Damn you, Secret Squirrel.

The literature I read these days is primarily children's lit. Is it an escape from the daily doldrums, or is it in pursuit of my dreams of becoming a children's book writer? Maybe both. This decision first acknowledged, then made. Doth thou hath a car?  I don'teth.