Because I still feel sixteen I don't ever feel guilty for not finishing writing a book, or not finishing nursing school, or not finishing Anna Karenina - because I'm sixteen. Who's got time for that? I've got making out to do yo, I can't waste precious time reading a classic. Plus I've got years and years to do all that other stuff, I mean I'm only mother f-ing sixteen!
"You're in your thirties."
"No, I'm thirty."
"That doesn't make you in your twenties sweetie, I hate to break it to you."
"I hate to break it to you, but yeah it does."
So, I don't feel guilty for not finishing things until my mom, who is supposed to support my delusions as a loving mother, insists on ruining my lifelong daydreams and snaps me back into reality with her "logic" and "facts" and "those aren't sixteen year old thighs though, are they honey?".
(Just kidding, she wouldn't say that to me. My sister and I could weigh seven hundred pounds and she would still be all, "Oh please, you're too skinny. Eat a damn cookie.")
When I tried to point out that she was also getting older her response was:
"Oh no, I talked about it with Becky and she's going to stay 29 and I'm going to stay 59! Isn't that great?"
"What about me?"
"What about you?"
"You guys stay young but I don't?"
"Well, one of us has got to get older honey."
"Why does it have to be me?!"
"Because Becky and I already talked about it."
"I don't like your logic here."
And I don't. I really don't.
So, now I'm feeling guilty for not finishing things because I (temporarily) remember how old I actually am. Thus I will be trying to write two hundred pages today, while practicing giving shots to oranges, and taking breaks only to read four hundred pages of a Russian novel.
If my hands, ears, and various body parts are bleeding tomorrow, you'll know why.
It's because I'm in my thirties.