twenty one.
I’m starting to get older now, and I’m beginning to realize that I don’t really want to do that. I love being engaged, it’s really starting to grow on me. I think I’ll like being married; I can’t wait to wake up next to Mandy everyday. But I don’t want to get any older. I’m actually pretty happy with my life. I’ve got a decent job (and maybe a raise coming soon, I’ll keep you posted), a great fiancé who really loves me, a couple of good friends at work, and I’m now 21. I don’t know how it could get much better. Aside from winning that lottery thing I’ve never bought a ticket for…
Point is, I’m not old, and I’m not young anymore. While I know enough about life to know I’m not invincible, I still want to go out and act stupid. I want to see what life has to offer, what I can attain in stuff and memories. I want to learn Italian and French. I want to open a bar. I want to take that little blond-haired girl to bed every night. I finally understand what it means to put the younger things aside and to do grown-up things, but I’ve still got my dreams.
And I can’t wait to chase them.