what the fetch?
I don't know what happened.
I think I fell and hit my head in high school and woke up here in this weird "13 going on 30" alternate universe, because I don't remember getting old.
My teenage brain is not equipped for this twenty-five year old life.
I spend hours playing bejeweled and angry birds on my cell phone instead of doing laundry.
And then act shocked when I can't find anything to wear, and my room is covered in clothing.
I was supposed to call my insurance company during lunch the other day, but spent the entire hour
watching baby pygmy goats on youtube (thanks, Elly) and listening to Garfunkel & Oats and Rocky & Balls.
And for the love of Pete, don't ask me to cook a meal. Anything with more than two steps
(unwrap put in microwave) is a recipe for disaster, and will only end in tears and broken appliances.
My husband has a panic attack anytime I look at the KitchenAid mixer.
I'm pretty sure he's afraid it will fall apart if I lay a finger on it.
I have the eating habits of a 12 year old.
If it wasn't for my husband, I don't think I would even see a vegetable, let alone eat one.
Despite my child-like tendencies, I guess I have grown up.
Because, I'm pretty sure my sixteen-year-old self would be scared sh!t-less if she lived in Alaska.
In fact, you couldn't have paid sixteen-year-old me to get on an airplane.
Not even backstage passes to Spice Girls or Hanson would get me on one of those winged death traps.
Now I have to get on a plane anytime I want to see civilization. Like Starbucks or Old Navy.
Between the dead animals, whales, and lack of Seven-Eleven,
sixteen-year-old me would be terrified.