New New New trouille
trouille
trouille
trouille

You know the drill.

I still have my sense of adventure.

I think that is very important in a person.







But Sun Chips and George Romero are pretty sweet, too.

Everything in this past week has been amplified magnificently.






I won't remember you.

( AHH this made my day )

After a certain age, no one talks about what they want to be when they grow up. I think this is because at some point, we know we’re still children, but we don’t want to admit that we aren’t adults, and by saying “When I grow up, I want to be a firefighter”, the child in us would be anticipant and fervent, while the adult would feel empty, because we are not, in fact, firefighters. And so we do nothing but fiddle with things like cameras and friends until we are launched into jobs at which we’re underpaid and over-worked, at which point we’d like to go back to being sixteen, and make sure that every day, we tell ourselves and all of our friends “When I grow up, I want to be anything but bored.”

She didn’t state it carelessly, or wordlessly, she simply said “When I grow up, I want to be a psychiatrist.” And a stunned smile nearly wiped my face clean of features, save for lips and teeth stretched from temple to temple, and the countless grins of illumination in my eyes. Not because I’m partial to those of that science. But because after going so long without hearing a claim so subtly magnificent, and composed of the simplest nine words and a noun that never really matters, I remembered being four years old.

I lay on the kitchen floor. It was aged from some shade, to some shade tinted yellow, and I could stretch my thin arms to my greatest ability, and never touch the walls. I was staring at the ceiling and my head rushed like shaken water inside my skull from obsessing my eyes with the smoke-stained light fixtures above. It was dusk, because the shadows fell sharply from the counters and my great-grandmother’s face was hidden in the dimness. The curtains were lace, and the clock on the wall was ticking. I loved to lie on the kitchen floor.

“When I grow up, I want to be a zoologist.”

The amused rejoinder only frustrated me, but after living only four years, anything could do that. Her voice was marred by an incessant intake of cigarettes and coffee, the kind in metal tins, but it was the most kindly voice in all of Maryland and Virginia, possibly the world. “Just yesterday you wanted to be a doctor.” I loved her to death.

I wanted to be a zoologist until I was twelve, and then I didn’t want to be anything, so that I didn’t have to be nothing. I had forgotten my great-grandmother until now. And now, I know what I want.

When I grow up, I want to be a Child.

I think the worst feeling would be because of knowing something.
Something like, it's better not to do anything, than to do something and have you dislike it.

Fuck the transition between terribly upset and angry.

EVERYTHING IS GOOOOOOOOOOOOD.
Thankyou, autism, for rendering me of my ability to think like a normal person.