I have about sixty-four days until I am no longer a
teenager. Part of me is like WOO! I’ll be a cool twenty-something,
but then there’s panicky me running about, trying to find out how not be a
grown up yet. For starters, I am fully
invested in trying to find out who ‘A’ is on Pretty Little Liars. This is fully justifiable because I have been
waiting to find out since I was a freshman in high school, and I’m going to be
going into my junior year of college this year.
Wow, panicky Julia is not okay with that sentence, but I digress. I've begun collecting knick-knacks that have certain
childlike qualities to them. I have wee
little potted plants that, to me, look like little elves would tend to them (I
sing to these little plants daily to help them grow). I even ordered a tiny
little watering can online so the elves will be able to pick it up.
I just recently hung
five little pictures of adorable animals – including an otter, a ducky, a
bunny, a squirrel and an elephant – right next to my bed. I in fact plan to own a duck when I have my
first apartment. I like to believe that
adult me won’t be regular. I’ll have a
part time yoga instructor job, a wacky apartment, be a freelance writer, and
have ducks as pets. I worry that I’ll
wake up twenty and suddenly have a desperate thirst to sit behind a desk in a
cubicle 9 am to 5 pm every weekday, wear pant suits, and care about what my
cuticles look like. I guess my framed
otter picture is my teenage reminder to my future self not to be regular.
I sometimes like to picture my older self and try to guess
what I’d say to me right now. I mostly
think that she’d strut into my room, all stylish, long haired and fabulous and
tell me that the future is great. I
married Bradley Cooper, Jennifer Lawrence sang at our wedding and Jo Rowling
herself was there to tell me she was a big fan of my work.
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