Damn it! I'm an adult! Damn it! I'm an adult!

The words I keep repeating in my head since my eighteenth birthday. I don't want to be an adult! Who the hell decided that I'm now of age since I turned 18? I don't feel like an adult. It's just weird. No one telling me what to do. Fuck, I have no idea where to go from here! A college degree is some kind of general goal, but then what? Get married? Settle down? My feelings on parenting? Jeez! I can't believe that I'm already thinking about all that stuff. A few of my friends from high school are already talking about getting engaged, and all I can think is, "No way in hell am I ready for life." I still have so much crap I want to do as a kid, I'll never have enough time as an adult.

I pay my own rent, I pay bills, I pay for food, yet I don't feel like an adult. I don't ever want to feel like an adult. I'm freaked out by the thought of it. It's like my dream lasted for a brief second before turning into this huge nightmare.

On a side note, I went out and bought lottery tickets and cigarettes the day I turned eighteen. The damn lady at the counter didn't even ask for ID! I don't even get the simple pleasure of pulling out my driver's license and saying, "Hey! I'm an adult now!" Not that it would be a pleasure... Hell, I don't even smoke or gamble... Jezz, what the fuck am I talking about. I should just accept the damn fact that I'm an adult and hit the daily grind...
Oh, goodness. I cringe now in memory of the way I'd stamp my foot and toss my head and slam the door, trying to get Mum to listen to me.

I'm an adult, Mums! Damnit, trust me?

It'd be so nice to really believe that, to really think I know what I want and what this life's all about. Because I sure as hell don't think that my mother knows.

Being an adult isn't about knowing what's going to happen, although I wish it was. Being an adult isn't about knowing what to do. (God, someone, tell me what to do here?) Being an adult is only only, (as far as I know) about being responsible for the decisions I make.

Oh, no.

I'm an adult, damnit! Wasn't this the time when I'd know everything, and do anything, and fear nothing? Isn't this when it's supposed to happen?


I don't like making the rules as I go. I don't like testing limits as I teeter near an invisible line. I don't like being responsible.

So I'm an adult, eh? Where's the beer? Where're my smokes?

Damn it! I'm an adult!
Flossing and Fish Murals

Nearly everyone I know has gingivitis. I know this because they say things like "My dentist told me I have gingivitis and referred me to a periodontist. What the hell does this mean?" Someone, if not everyone in the room, will have advice to give, and why? Because they have gingivitis. Most people I know have had root canals, crowns, scaling teatments, and/or shudder gum grafts. Adults talk about these things, and compare them. Doesn't that just suck? This is not My Dinner With Andre, you know?

Adults have periodontists. I went to a children's dentist (the one I'd gone to for years) until I was 17 or so, and only left because I moved out of town, because a) I hate finding a new person, and b) the murals. There were four: Sesame Street, Star Wars, the Muppets, and something else. What do adults get? Tropical fish murals, if we're lucky. What was the cutover point? Fish are soothing, especially when they're in a large aquarium in a private home, but whenis this decided for us? After a Bar or Bat Mitzvah, is it decreed "Okay, only fish murals from now on. No more R2D2."

Adults have to sit on a chair with an excellent view of - what, Fozzie and Animal? - NO! a spectacularly revolting poster that illuminates a stage of advanced gum disease, the kind that could really only happen if you lived far from civilization and survived on taffy, or were English, or a scurvy-ridden pirate. Being an adult means having "reality" pushed in your face as much as possible, even when it's far-fetched. I think that this sucks, too.

Adults who have rather sorry times in front of a fish mural inevitably freak out and start flossing with a discipline that would be admired by Tibetan monks, Romanian gymnasts, or Stanley Kubrick. When you're an adult with a periodontist you floss with a Calvinistic fervor at least twice a day (Get thee behind me, gingivitis!), and sometimes after every meal. You learn the correct brushing and flossing technique, and realize, maybe, that you have been doing it all wrong. Don't even think about gummybears or bones or coke bottles. (though it is sort of funny to eat one and think of your dentist's reaction if they saw).

Adults also have all of these pissy, usually obligatory tasks (whether owing to vanity or necessity) that consume their day, though they should keep it at a minimum. These tasks start when they wake up. And this is a problem in itself.

When I was eight or so, I felt GREAT when I woke up. You know - awake, and not in some sort of discomfort. No problems. Just throw on some clothes, eat what your mom puts in front of you, and go play. My Big Bird alarm clock told me that it was time to get up, and to brush my teeth and wash my face. Simple.

And now? When I wake up I feel like hell. I don't even want to go into it now. But update my alarm clock and it would say "Time to wake up and brush your teeth with a serious-looking, high-tech SoniCare brush, wash your face, shower, shave, moisturize, floss, do four different types of abdominal crunches, two types of push-ups, tricep dips, and stretching, then make coffee and go to work, tool!”

But I fucking refuse to use beige Band-Aids. It's my last stand.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.