And I realize that I am dreading Monday.
Eighteen is such a foreign, unfamiliar number. Everyone's treating it like it's the best thing in the world, but there is absolutely nothing to celebrate. You vote, you smoke, you can be tried as an adult. Whoop-dee-doo. I'm excited.
I'm trying to hang on to my childhood before it slips away. All I wanted tomorrow was a balloon. A freaking balloon. Doesn't need to be five, doesn't need to be twenty, doesn't need to be those pretty, shiny Mylar balloons. Just one stupid helium balloon.
Balloons are such a classic symbol of our childhood, and I'm just trying to cherish every last bit of mine before it's lost to me completely.
Yet no one will grant me this one wish. It's just a freaking balloon.
I don't know what to do. I don't want to sound cliche, but I'm really not looking forward to my birthday.
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