Bright Young Thing

Again, apologies for the delay in updates. I don’t really have an excuse, but since the majority of you are my friends, you understand how I do many things on a whim. So, please forgive me, and I make no promises about the timing of future updates. They’ll happen at the opportune moment.

In any case, time to get on with the show. A few weeks ago, an auspicious event occurred. That’s right, I, your dear author and favourite spleen-venter, turned 21. I’ll just let that sink in for a moment.

Yup. I’m officially an adult. How weird is that? Now, granted, the friends I was with did a great job of not making me feel like an old fogey, partly because they’re all older than me, and partly because they got me ice cream cake (yay!). I’m usually not much for cake, but when it’s made from ice creamy goodness, I can definitely go for that.

Still, I digress. The point of this entry is for me to take stock of my life a little as I pass this important landmark. Your purpose in this is twofold: both to critique my ramblings, as ever, and, if you’re lucky enough to be younger than me, to mock my advanced years. I hear that’s what all the cool kids are doing these days.

So, important things that have changed now I’m 21:

I can now no longer say that I haven’t thrown up due to alcohol. On a related note, I can also no longer say that my friends haven’t seen me practically naked while I was passed out. It’s a long story.

The ‘songs I can no longer sing’ list has increased to include the Swiss Army Romance by Dashboard Confessional, for the ‘we’re not 21’ line. However, I am yet another year closer to being able to sing ‘What’s My Age Again?’ and mean it.

I now appreciate Blink 182 for their knack of writing good pop, rather than their immature antics. I also now appreciate Avril Lavigne for blatantly phoning it in, rather than completely for her looks.

I’m now terrified of flying, at least going to America. Strangely, on the way back, I couldn’t care less about dying.

All my housemates are again a year younger than me. This means that I have to put up with endless ‘granddad’ cracks. On the bright side, I can now get into the over 21 bars here. All one of them. It’s hardly worth being 21 on this damned continent.

My musical tastes are broadening, which means that my ‘I hate the bands that you like’ T-shirt is in increasing danger of being untrue.

Oh, and finally, not to do with me, but a further sign of the Apocalypse (if one was required beyond me surviving to maturity): Miranda now likes Fall Out Boy. Unfortunately, this means that one of my main avenues of getting under her skin has disappeared.

Anyway, I’ll stop rambling. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over the last week or so, but I won’t share. Besides, most of it was bolstering up my self-esteem after spending a week with the ‘constant source of introspection and ego-crippling’.
Peace out.