Lopsided Smiles;

I missed the cut-off date.
It's not that big a deal, only 5%.
But it's chemistry of all things.
So i'm cutting myself up about it.
Not literally, because literally cutting myself would make me feel overly nauseous.
But figuratively, I feel horrible.
A physical pain for a mental ailment.

I have wonderful friends.
Friends who try to cheer me up with a story about a girl called April who narrowly escaped a pack of wolves on the beach after she fell down a hole. Or friends who try to help me forget. Or friends who find me my new favourite songs that aren't quite uplifting enough to get me out of this funk. The find The Wombats, Kimya Dawson, Michael Buble. They suggest kit-kats or alphabet bags or even the reminder of my birthday, too close for comfort.

To tell the truth I'm actually scared of the barrier, between seventeen and eighteen. I don't want to be an adult. I'm immature and a little weird but hopefully slightly loveable. I don't want to be responsible today. Or tomorrow. I have only 18 days, of which to learn wisdom and truth and responsibility.

But let me shirk that all for one more day, and I'll beat myself up over a missed CMT deadline and then tomorrow, I'll pick up my new alphabet bag and my books and wear my favourite jeans and hopefully tomorrow will be better than today. Which is mightily possible.

A honey-scented world, free blossoms falling, the first steps of an infant, cradle-cap.
Dancing in a world of bumble-bees, pudding cups, bear-shaped vitamins.

Call me tomorrow, when I arrive from the moon.
On a rocketship made of scrap metal and spare tyres.
Call me tomorrow, when I return to my home,
And tomorrow, smiling will be the chore.

N.
Blanche, you do not fail.
I understand. And I wish I could be.
Josh Groban-style, I appreciate your effort.
Fannypacks are my favourite measure of value.