Please Sir, Might I Have Some More...

Sometimes, I frikkin' HATE being adult.

You see, there are nights--like tonight--when I come home drunker than I reasonably should be.

Up until around 4:00pm EST, I thought that I was going to have to be in the Bronx at 8:15am tomorrow... an endeavor which would require me to be awake somewhere around 5:30am.

I then received a phone call informing me that, due to inclement weather, the school in question was canceling all programming for tomorrow.

Being that today also happened to be the 30th birthday of the Lovely A, I could hardly complain about this change in plans, and thus scampered off to meet her and a few others for dinner and drinks... which turned into more drinks at a cheaper bar in Brooklyn... which turned into my taking a car service home at 2am and attempting to make a snack upon arrival, which not only resulted in my burning my arm on my frikkin' oven, but also resulted in this sentiment:

I FUCKING HATE GETTING OLDER!!!

I hate that the fact that I lost my balance while removing my second high-heeled boot (not the first), resulting in my tumbling ass-first to the floor.

I hate that I managed to burn my arm while attempting to make a pizza bagel...e FROM A HOMEMADE FUCKING BAGEL, NONE THE LESS!!! WHO THE FUCK ELSE MAKES HOMEMADE GODDAMNED BAGELS, AND STILL I BURN MYSELF?!?!??)

I hate that not only do I care about any of the above, but also feel the need to share it with the world, and...

Is it just me, or are the expectations that we place upon ourselves to be "grown up" completely and utterly ridiculous, on more levels than I care to count?

I hate being disappointed in myself, and failing at a drunken pizza bagel at 2am seems a ridiculous reason to be so, and so I ask... what, when it really fucking matters constitutes "adulthood," and how the hell do we measure it anyway?

Because if the answer is bruises and burn scars, I've been an "adult" since the age of 5, and that really just seems wrong...