AKA: I’m actually finishing a project, could this be a sign of the Apocalypse?
I’m kidding. But according to my spreadsheet, I’m on track to finish this manuscript in less than a month.
Finish! I will have have actually achieved the result I set out for an entire year ago. I know some people work on a book for ten years, and it’s their magnum opus, but I’m seventeen.
Ten years ago I was seven. I thought people grew new teeth every few years like sharks, and that Europe was a country North of France.
One year ago, I was sixteen. I thought my zine was going to take off. I was still drinking like a fish. I gardened like a fiend. I dabbled very seriously in several religions. I decided to forsake electric light for a few weeks, drunkenly kissed a friend at a party, and then I got really obsessed with Harry Styles.
Real teen stuff, OK? I swear I change interests every six seconds.
So I’ve been tearing through all the raucous whims of adolescence, and I’ve managed to stick with one project for an entire year. That’s a big deal to me; I’m happier than I can say.