I might as well put it out there that I may very well occasionally be eight going on eighteen. I probably consume far too much coffee and far too little chocolate. I refuse to carry umbrellas and I haven't the foggiest idea how to use nail polish. Now that confessions are over - I'm glad you're here.
They say “Growing old is mandatory, but growing up is optional.” I think. Or, is it “Growing up is mandatory, but growing old is optional?” I’m going to be honest - I have no idea. I’m sure a quick google search could give me an answer, but perhaps it would be nice to leave myself one question that I could still try to answer even if my wifi is down. So, I flipped it around in my mind a few times. Once upon a time in the long-gone days of four years ago, Masha learned something about converses of statements. Now, a not-much-wiser Masha’s on a subway train wearing a pair of obscenely dirty Converse. I know what either means - someone else can prop open a logic textbook, and Buzzfeed can tell me my “Shoe Personality.” I’m just going to think.
Even someone as blonde as I am knows none of these mean anything without more concrete goals and accountability, and I've got some wonderful reality-checks in store for future Masha, so that ought to be fun. I'm honestly just very, very happy to be alive this year, and to have the ability to worry a little less about that being a given.
HAPPY NEW YEAR to all of you. If anything, you can always resolve to stop hanging around people who make New Year's resolutions.
According to Motivational Mug I Got For Secret Santa™ I’m supposed to “Live a Life of Colour.” Maybe there’s room in that life for calling someone a “bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkeyshine.” I’ve dropped my fair share of four letter words on those whom I love this year. Another favourite two-word sentence of ours is “I’m sorry.” I can always drop an f-bomb, I do love the smell of Napalm in the morning, but I also dropped a plate yesterday. Out of sheer sleep deprivation, after a very loud word that wasn’t “Oh Fudge,” I said to it, “I’m sorry.” The plate is still broken. I never want my mom, or my friend to be. No matter how much of a boil-brained bloody bastard I may think them at the time.
It certainly doesn't feel like it but, with the exception of two, all days in your life are 24 hours long. Sure sometimes your boss yells at you and you miss someone and you're cold and running late and the day seems to take about three and a half years. Other times, I'm pretty sure my day feels short enough to be a non-skippable Youtube ad. The 24-hour cycle hasn't changed, but the "days" are shorter now.
Life is similar to a roller coaster. Not in a "straight off of Pinterest" inspirational-quote way. At least not really. In an (ever so slightly) more objective way, the vaguely-forward-moving chaos that is my life and King da Ka have something in common.
