Teen vs Twen(ty)

I spent the last day as a teenager pigging out, and the last evening with the best friends, and the last hour talking to a dead person, and to a singer, and to myself, pondering on how I was going to go forth and proceed in life. Under the running water of the shower, I tried to process and understand myself – feelings, expression, and puzzled thoughts. But they don’t make sense to me. Was it because of exhaustion that caused the tears to come falling down? Or the overwhelming big two? Or because of the disillusioned reality that is so difficult to come to terms with?

As the years past, less people remember the significance of this day. Perhaps I am turning into one of them – I don’t want fanciful parties, nor do I want unnecessary presents. Look at all the spoilt brats around who come up with a mainstreamed themed 21st birthday; isn’t it so frequent, it’s gao-wei yet? So what’s the point of a birthday and a celebration; when you just cannot seem to be content with the dissatisfied reality you are living, and aren’t quite happy?

Mom budged into the room at midnight (as always….) just now to warn, warily, that the laptop is functioning very slowly and that my father is in a bad mood (what’s new….) followed by pointing at the Mac demanding that it’s strictly for work only, because the Fujitsu laptop is hanging. Brother, destroyer of all laptops.  And he gets away from it. I get blamed for everything. Sometimes I really loath his existence, because he is such a bane – incredibly self-centered, demands royalty, and commands as if he were the king. Thankfully he’s not; because the kingdom would crumble having to tolerate each time he rage.

20, just trying to enjoy the peace and quiet as I settle into my birthday but it took a turn, all because she came in to check on me (she always ends up disrupting the only time I have to myself in a completely people-free vicinity. The sole reason as to why I enjoy staying up late into the night. How am I to contain all that annoyance? What a way to ruin the start, isn’t it. How frustrating.

This morning, I woke up with dad walking in to the room to kiss me on the forehead. And after they headed out, the tears just came without warning. Was that part of the package of what the 20s had for me? It’s scary. And I’m afraid. But then again,
Once again it’s time to get my quite sorry ass out to hit the books. Man, growing up stinks.

The cost of oblivious daydreaming was always this moment of return, the realignment with what had been before and now seemed a little worse. Her reverie, once rich in plausible details, had become a passing silliness before the hard mass of the actual. It was difficult to come back.

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