You know me. . .or you should by now. I am the same person I was when we met. I don't care if you were born in the seventies, and I in the eighties. I don't care if you are X years old, and I am only 19. It doesn't bother me that you are older (except when you make it a point to show me how young and inexperienced, and uneducated I am). So tell me. . . why do you care?

Why is it such a big deal that I am younger, or that I listen to music from the sixties, or that I can play music in twelve-eight time? I don't claim to be better than you. . . but I don't aspire to be LESS than you either.

This is me. This is who I am. The numbers shouldn't matter.

You type a sick number of words per minute. You live in one apartment, eat out at 5 or 6 restaurants, spend a great deal of time hanging out with 3 specific people. . . That isn't who you are. I know this, you know this. . .

So, I'm puzzled. Why the hell am I 19? Why have you taken everything that I do, and accomplish, and stand for, and confined it in a number? One number. I'm bigger than that. And if you can't realize it, then I will be one more friend that you don't have, one more person who loved you, and one less number to clutter up your life.

So, ironically I find that this idea strikes close to home.

How do you explain that vague apprehension one feels when they learn that a person they admire is years younger? First comes that twinge, that thought..."Look at what they've done with their life...I haven't done nearly as well." Then the more lingering thoughts..."I have memories from a time when they didn't even exist..."

I have this strange theory that's it's a flip side to that moment when you realize that your parents had a life before you. That moment of almost pure infinitessimalism that usually is the first humbling epiphany of many.

Now comes this moment, when you think back to the year that this youngen was born, and you realize the world went on...outside of your perception. A new life was wraught, and different experieces had. When you were working up the nerve to ask Jenny to the dance, they were still in an endless summer.

For some people, to prove that the extra years were not worthless, they must play superior, and more worldly. To quantify a person's existence based wholly on the span of time they have under their belt. As if those years all held an equal ammount of growth...why not just be kind and judge them based on their eye color.

Eh, who knows, maybe when we die, only those born before the year 1980 will make it to paradise...I can see St. Peter now, carding people at the gates to heaven.

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