Fine, fine. I’ll grow up. Sheesh.

Being a kid may be the toughest job in the history of man. You’re shoved into this world, with zero experience and plenty of liabilities, and you’re asked to turn into a human by a certain deadline.

Tick, tock. Grow up little fuck.

You end up having less moral consciousness through the first decade and a half than a challenged poodle and  ignoring the one you have in the remaining half, much like one would a zit that they can’t pop out or pat properly.

Then, out of the blue, you’re a certified fraction of the population who’s about to have their own car, go to university and have a life, when the truth is, you’re just an old kid, you still get lost in your own neighborhood, make the stupidest mistakes on a daily basis and have absolutely no idea how to be a grown up other than maybe looking a little more serious doing everything. You lose the luxury of being excused when your experience fails to be up to par, the tolerance of people who choose to look the other way when you show their expectations into a dry wall and the clarity that comes with being young enough not to see everything in HD.

Much like Spiderman, you’re left with superpowers that make grownups go jelly and the motor functions of the aforementioned jelly, coupled with the prospect of your life crashing face-first into a brick wall on the slight off-chance of doing it wrong, you’re suddenly made into a desk clerk who’s been assigned more office hours during power cut, left to fill in the high-tech gadgets’ shoes at the price of losing your own job if you don’t get those 23423469762343 files proofread and  handed in by 5 o’clock.  Cheers buddy, power cut time. Now work your ass off if you wanna keep it.

The irony lies in the fact that you were supposed to pick up the required experience for that having the emotional capacity of an ape for a quarter of your life, of a Bulgarian cockatoo for another quarter, that of an ancient, 1st generation computer for another and a, surprise surprise, an ape again for the last quarter.

Makes you think of the popcorn theory again, doesn’t it? And you get the mental image of a whole extraterrestrial audience laughing their ass off at the poorly cut, edited and produced show that is your life. I am having trouble juggling a senior year with a social life, how the shenanigan am I expected to add in a couple of more pinches here and there? You go from not being allowed to leave a 30 metre radius around your building to driving across the Nile, commuting on a 2 hour drive to university every morning, not to mention the couple of errands here and there during and afterwards. You’re left with organizing, managing and directing a life through paperwork, other people who don’t know shit about what they’re doing and very fucking bad traffic.

Fuck this shit, I want my mommy.