“I hate being young.”
Day one word count: four.
It seems like I’ve been young forever. Just when I feel a little older, I find out I’m not. People envy he young. I don’t know why. We’re just people too. We’ve got our own problems. Sometimes we feel old, way old.
I remember when I was even younger, I used to believe I was the reincarnation of a 4000 year old spirit (or a “vessel,” or “host,” or “manifestation”). I was an ancient, secret traveler among humanity. I might’ve met Moses. I’d seen Rome rise and fall. I’d known searing love and cold hatred, been a slave and a conqueror and an artist and a leader of men. I was more eternal than my thirteen earthly years could ever hint. I was confined to this body, and that body hadn’t even kissed a girl.
Haha. Don’t laugh. Yeah, it’s like a cliché or something. I dunno. Never got the chance then, I guess. I was busy in my own world not making friends. I spent elementary school as a migrant, going between groups on the playground until I was bored or they were annoyed. Once, in fourth grade I repeated the word “crack” for an entire hour. Numb of mind and pesky of mouth. I was an outcast by choice and nature—my antisocial and irritating nature.
I hated being young. Puberty. Hormones. Curfews. Backpacks. Textbooks. Math homework. Science fair projects. P.E., “pysical education.” P.E. Teachers. Pop quizzes. Hall moniters. Cafeterias. Sex ed. Homeroom pride. School nurses. Beginning, intermediate, and advanced band concerts. Associated Student Body elections. Yellow buses. Short fountains and tall fountains. Candy-bar and t-shirt fundraisers. Asphalt rivalry.
Day one word count: 290. I’m looking for 2000. Damn!
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