Twelve Days

I'm going to be twenty in twelve days.

No. I'm gonna be old in twelve days

(Not cool, World. I really don't appreciate how you're trying to snatch my childhood away like that. It's mean. And I thought we were friends.)

I'm going to be halfway to forty. A quarter to eighty. And I'm guessing I won't be ready to turn those ages, either, when the time comes.

I wish there were a way to go back and forth in your life. One day, you could choose to be eight years old and totally carefree. The next day, you could skip to being twenty-something with a baby. Then, you could go back to being nineteen and laughing. You could even visit the best days again and again. When you finally got tired of it all, you could choose to die, but not before you were ready. Not before you got hundreds of years of happiness in. And because you would know the future, you wouldn't have to worry about everything working out in the end. I mean, even if it happened that nothing worked out, that nothing was fine and you just end up miserable and wrinkled, you could choose to never become that. You could choose to never visit the awful ages. You could just hang out in the times when you were happy, over and over again.