This just in–my eighteenth birthday is on the approach! I need cake, presents, and a whole lot of guests; and I want it done double time, soldiers! I want you moving so fast you can hear brain juice sloshing around in your head! And if any of you wise guys get nauseous, it’s fifty laps for you!

Sorry about that, folks, just up in arms over this birthday thing. I mean, I’m just turning eighteen, which is nothing, right? Another age in the span of our super long lives, with the exception of twenty one…if you know what I mean. I at least understand its significance, that of becoming an adult, a man, or so they say, who pays bills and files taxes and works a job, otherwise known as all the boring stuff that comes with adulthood.

I’m like Peter Pan, but not as insane. See, Peter wanted to stay young, and everyone was cool. They said, “Hey, you go, Pan. We’re gonna be over here finding success and making families.” Then Peter got freaking weird and stole other kids from their homes so he wouldn’t be lonely in Neverland. If I remember correctly, Peter butchered the children who grew older than him.

Talk about stunted puberty.

All of you adults out there, I’m sure you know that superior feeling of independence you also get from adulthood. One time I went out to the movies, by myself, and bought a ticket, by myself, and watched the movie, by myself–and a bunch of other strangers who farted and laughed at weird parts of the movie. Then again, that might have been me the whole time.

It was The Conjuring 2, a horror movie. If I’m laughing out loud because there’s a super obvious hint to the ending of the plot, and no one else laughs, then there’s probably something wrong with me. It’d be a good idea to go see a psychologist, or a psychiatrist–I’m not too sure which is which anymore, but I know they both do screwy things to your already screwed up brain.

Birthday party’s gonna be kicking, though, ’cause I’m inviting all these epic rock bands and they’re set to play their greatest hits until midnight, then, when they’ve finished, we’ll shoot off those professional fireworks you always see in New York–those damn New Yorkers get all the fancy crap–and eat chips and salsa until everyone crashes on the lawn.

So, sort of the best party in the history of anything.

Can’t wait to be eighteen! If any of you cultured people got any tips of what to do once I cross the  big eight one–wait, I mean one eight, then please, do let me know. I’ll follow some of them, then trash the rest.

Kidding, of course, but I’m not eighteen yet, so I can still lie and get away with it.

Think daily,

A Southpaw