It's Friday the Thirteenth, the one just before my birthday.
Tomorrow I'll be eighteen. This is probably the last moment I'm can be a juvenile delinquent, or sneak into a M18 movie illegally. The last moment before I start getting drunk, or driving (or both), or smoking, or taking dru- no wait that's illegal whatever age you are. Uhh, before I start having sex or getting married or childbirth (oh wait that's not for me). The last moment I can be a little boy, or think and act weird and interesting because society doesn't let adults do that. Far beyond getting children's price at restaurants and buffets, and the last moment I have leglistative immunity from being a child soldier. The last chance at Hogwarts sending my invitation letter, and to be young and sweet, like a Dancing Queen. The end of years of haiku syllables, and of distinct wallpaper groups, and of fashion magazines.
So once that clock strikes twelve, in three seconds, I'm- oh, it's twelve.
Damn, I'm old.
The Edna Man
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