It’s a week till my 20th birthday. I wish those seven days could stretch on for seven years. I don’t want to be 20. It nauseated me to think that in seven days I’ll have to start saying, “I’m 20” instead of “I’m 19.” I love being 19. I want to be 19 forever. I don’t know why I’m so obsessed with 19 but I do know why I don’t want to be 20: I don’t want to stop making excuses.
I originally made a list of 10 reasons I’m afraid to turn 20, but none of them are remotely funny so I just scrapped the whole thing. I think this mini existential crisis I’ve been experiencing over the past three days has drained every last ounce of my creative energy. Right now I’m just a boring, empty shell of the vastly fascinating person I usually am. Lol. I think I’m having an identity crisis because everything is just happening way too fast. Besides all the obvious perks of being a teenager – blaming everything on hormones, getting a multitude of second chances that you don’t deserve, listening to shitty music without anyone questioning your sanity – I’m going to miss the sense of stability I’ve settled into over the last six years. The constant, suffocating sense of disappointment directed at us from all angles, our penchant for making the same mistake two billion times over, our inability to choose the right path even though we know exactly what it is. And temptation, the one thing we never fail to fall for.
The beauty of being a teenager is that your actions are self-explanatory. By virtue of hovering anywhere between 13 to 19, you’re expected to be an absolute moron. When you smoked the wrong shit or slept with the wrong guy, you can just say you’re a moronic, hormonal teenager and after some grounding and some yelling and possibly some crying you’ll be forgiven because, after all, what you did was expected. You lived up to your expectations, congratulations. And I like that. I like having people place bets on when I’m gonna pull the next stupid shit I’ve got on my agenda. I like people expecting me to almost kill myself and jam my future in the shredder, and I fucking dig the flabbergasted expressions on their stupid faces when once in a while I actually made the right choice and ultimately got into a decent college.
I spent a third of my life being a teenager. An immature, hormonal, spoilt leech on society. I’m so used to being this imbecile that I’ve kind of grown to love it, and I’ve also forgotten how to be anyone else. I don’t want people to take me seriously and expect the best of me. I don’t want to enjoy my 20s and make intellectual, “mature” friends. I don’t want to grow up, okay??? And you know what hurts the most? I can no longer say Teen Spirit gets kids like “us” in a way no one ever has. Imagine claws digging into your shoulder blades, sinking so deep and hard into your flesh that they lacerate your tendons and scratch your bones; imagine them trailing down the length of your torso, shredding your muscles to rip your bloody, throbbing organs out your body. Yeah, that’s about a tenth of the pain I feel every time I see the word Teen in Teen Spirit, and every time I remember that Kurt Cobain is dead.