something i wrote when my mother told me to write about how i felt about the "stress". really exaggerated, probably shouldn't be taken too seriously --- i won't stop you from doing so though :)

i’m 14 and i get that i am really an adult, because i’m old enough to take responsibility for myself and my future and everything else that my parents won’t be in a few short years.  

 

but in retrospect, i shouldn’t get too cocky, because i’m really just a child; i’m not responsible and i unnecessarily cry over “small” things like myself and my future and everything else that my parents won’t be.

 

i don’t mean to sound condescending, or like the 14-year-old that people can’t decide the maturity level of, so they go “hey, let’s just choose all of ‘em and hope she figures it out”. i genuinely mean it, because let’s face it — in the grand scheme of things, i’m at least a little bit worthless, nothing special (most certainly not special enough for a full ride), and i get it.

 

i get that i’m a teenager, and i get that that instantly grants me the gift of everybody i know not-so-slyly reminding me that college doesn’t pay for itself and that if i don’t somehow get a full ride, they most certainly won’t take responsibility. two years to get a full scholarship — the chance of which that would occur less than 0.00007%.

 

but by all means, go ahead and tell me one more time.

 

tell it to my head that’s racing a hundred miles an hour, with crumbling words like “scholarships” and “college funds” and “SATs” and “why don’t you just get a damn job, already?” whizzing past each other at undoubtedly perilous proximities.

 

am i that thick-skulled?

 

maybe it happens to be that way, though, because it seems that every day, i seem to exemplify the typical 21st century student with her head deadlocked in the ozone, “relaxing” for three years in a haze ‘til senior year comes around and her cloud unexpectedly begins to thunder and she falls like a raindrop at a hundred miles an hour until she gets exposed to a little too much radiation, and there it is —

 

she’s stuck working at a Burger King drive thru, desperately stealing ketchup and relish packets, shoving them in her thick but holey dollar store ankle socks.

 

i’m 14 and i get that i am really a child, but for Christ’s sake:

don’t cry over little things like that — the fries will get soggy.

CC BY-SA 4.0 “write about it, then” by Katherine is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

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