Being 18 is strange. You know you’re 18. Popular mythologies dictate someday you’ll look back and romanticize being 18. So you know you’re supposed to be living out some kind of idealized freedom. But being 18, you’re able to block out that pressure of expectation and get on with the business of idealized freedom. Or is that just how i now remember being 18, lens smeared with vaseline? I think even the deep confusion of being 18 felt good, romantic somehow.
You don’t know yet that being 19 is stranger and 21 stranger still and from now on every day will seem stranger than the day before until suddenly you’re 30 then 35 and you’re divorced and broke and some people you know die and everyone else has babies both of which reveal life to be truly but a dream and you have no choice but to continue and the shit job you had is the shit job you still have and you wonder if people don’t age like Russian dolls, each year a shell over the last restricting access to past senses of wonder and the hangovers are worse and hardly make hanging out at all seem worth it and if you drink now you’re just another drinking jerk and if you still smoke pot now you’re some adult drug-addict which is very different than being a daring young psychonaut and the impossible trick becomes learning how to best tread all the strangeness which gets stranger every day in a manner that suits you personally. And personally, i am still working on it. But i figure continuing to work on it is my only option.”