So, point being, a week from today, I will be eighteen. That's like, big numbers. I will be old. I will be a "grown up", what ever that is. I seem to have convinced myself that on my birthday I will magically grow three inches, and the added height is what will make me gain responsibility. I have decided, I am not ready to grow up yet. However, in my eighteen (nearly) eighteen years of life, I have accomplished some things. I can:
- Treat a cat for fleas
- Do the the basic steps for a Charleston and a waltz
- Fix a bookcase using a complex balancing system
- Put on a duvet cover without getting trapped inside it for half an hour
- Send a text while going at speed on a horse
- Change a light bulb
- Do a cartwheel with one hand
- Write a semi-decent short story
- Fit inside my kitchen cupboard for an emergency hiding space
- Make really nice cake
I cannot fill a dishwasher properly, sew on a button, order anything in a restaurant without panicking, or have a faux-cheerful conversation with a hairdresser but I think I have enough to be getting on with.
In other news...