listen, I’m getting too old for a lot of things. but I’m not too old for words. for a baggy pair of jeans and my boyfriend’s t-shirts. I’m not too old for wine in a paper cup and a marlboro every once in a while. I’m not too old for peter pan and I’m not too old to quote holden caulfield. I’m not too old to lay in my all day trying to get this story out of my skin, trying to burn it through the paper and read books under my covers with a flashlight, not too old to stare at the glow in the dark stars stuck to my ceiling at night. I’m not too old to ride around with the windows down and simon and garfunkel turned up, because that’s the way simon and garfunkel should be played. I’m not too old to jump on my bed and refuse to wash my hair. I’m not too old to run around bare foot with a smile stuck my face even when times are hard. and I’m not too old to get out of here. next spring I’m taking off. to hear summer turn into fall, to listen as the leaves in a park somewhere whisper stories in my ear, to fall asleep in the rose gardens, wake up when winter laughs under my sheets, to write letters back home on paper napkins, make lightwaves feel like experience, to make mistakes, to write poetry in the backest seat of a bus, to exchange thousands of words with people I’ve never met, to do things I have never done on my own before, to fail miserably time over time, to fuck up and never ever ever ever give up.