@21

Impatient. 

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?

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.

Inspiration.

Who I was at twenty.