I always feel awkward when I write an entry when the haitus between the latest and the one I'm typing is comparable to a lifetime. So let me start again without making a new username. Because I don't want to have to revert back and forth from ndslotesse, to this one, to a new one. I just don't want to have to be split into two.But I have to admit that I'm seriously considering it. I always start anew when I feel different. Because I am different ...now. And reviewing my old entries and writing now seems like a sham. Because I'm not who I was last year compared to who I am now. Like the way I wasn't who I was last year compared to who I was the year before that. If that even makes any sense.

I guess I'm trying to decide whether or not writing in here is even worthwhile anymore. If it's not just going to be a chore or an obligation, but a pleasure. Because a long time ago that's what writing was to me, a pleasure.

I feel awkard trying to make my words seem mellifluous. Like I'm trying so hard to be someone who I'm not, only someone who I once was. But then I justify wanting to change because it won't be to be someone different, it will be ...to be who I once was.

I'm sure none of this really matters. And making a decision this easy, shouldn't be that hard. But it is for right now. Because I'm just trying to find myself as cliche as that may sound. Because even invincibility has it's weaknesses. And I'm not going to be 17 forever. And this year will end without me knowing. And college is just around the corner.

So my childhood is ending for real this time. For good. And the next time I will be able to witness it, is indirectly through the eyes of my own children. And I know it may sound melodramatic that I should feel so old and be so young. But things like that matter to a senior in highschool. Things like that matter to someone like me. Whose just trying to get by with C's and speeding tickets and prom dress worries. Because this is the last time those things will really matter or even make sense. These are the last times crying over spilt milk will be overlooked. Because next year is my journey into the real world and I'm not sure if I'm going to make it. I'm sure everyone gets these college-jitters and worrying about it will pass in time. But I'm just scared of actually ...truly... growing up. Because there's no turning back. Because living under my parent's roof is socially unacceptable at the age of 40. ...Even though I don't live there anymore.

And what will happen to my memories? I'm afraid of forgetting the greatness of being young. I'm scared that I'll get consumed by the monotonous daily aspects of adult life and that my imagination will lose its luster. And if it does get lost, how will I ever get it back? And will I even care? Because to tell you the truth, I feel like I'm losing it now. And I'm only 17. What more when I'm 40? I feel the creativity of my second-grade self has vanished and are faded images in the scattered library of my mind. And I've forgotten how to use a card-catalog. Instead computers are my sources of imagination, and who needs books when all the creativity is handed to you just by pressing enter?

I'm not even sure where I'm going with all of this. All I know is that invincibility really won't last forever. Because last year I turned in my sweetness card for a bullet-proof heart. And 18 is just around the corner. And I'll be able to buy my own cigarettes and porn and legally die for my country. I'll be an adult on paper. So here I am. Here I come. There's no more postponing it. Ready. Set. Go.

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