At twenty-one, I am still impatient.
I cuff my pants, because at twenty-one, I have stopped growing. Imagine that. A statement for the record books.
I am twenty year old Courtney, minus the brunette, minus the mystery, add a traffic citation and a year. I can still fall asleep anywhere, can't solve simple math equations without a calculator, and I floss more often than necessary.
Parting my now shoulder-length blonde hair straight down the middle is something that I do, and my celebrity crush is the Hybrid resulting in a cross between Jimmy Kimmel and John Krasinski. And I'm sure. Because I've thought about it. A lot.
At twenty-one, my mother still forgets the date of my actual birth, confusing it with the day before, but I let it slide because she's the one that gave me life, or whatever. And I appreciate that.
I hate the smell of maple syrup, but who is that opinion really bothering, anyway?
In my twenty-first year, I still hate Cantaloupe and Peas, beef stew, Acai berries, and I think that I'm allergic to Avacados.
At twenty-one, my pallet is picky and naive. Sort of like the rest of my existence, really.
This doesn't have anything to do with anything, but I always think about the fact that I'm still not sick of this song... which means there is a good chance that it is now a part of my identity at this age, right?
We're going with that.
And, you know, at twenty-one, I know what I want out of life:
babies, clean white sheets, dimple-kisses, Van Goh on every wall, and a messy kitchen.
It could all make me happy forever.