When Armpit Hair Grows :: essays research papers

What happened to wanting to grow up? Where did all my sports and hobbies go? Why is it I have to take showers daily now? I woke up this morning and I was eighteen. I absolutely hate being eighteen. I am expected to be an adult now and forget about having fun. If this is the path of what growing up is going to be like, then I QUIT! Bring me back to twelve I want to be young again.   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  The irony, when I was twelve I could not wait to be eighteen. The thought of being able to do what ever you want seemed so appealing to me. Little did I realize that being eighteen has plenty of downfalls. I remember thinking eighteen year olds were so cool. They were able to buy the coolest things, cigarettes, scratch tickets, and porn. Now eighteen I don’t buy any of these items because; A) I don’t smoke; B) I never win on scratch tickets, and C) I now know I can get porn free on my computer. My idea of eighteen seemed much more glorious than what it is. Being eighteen went far past the ability to buy the coolest things. Someone must have forgot to tell me that I now need to work to live, that I need college to work, and that I need to grow up to go to college. Someone forgot to tell me it sucks being eighteen. I use to be an active kid. I was outside everyday, rain or shine. Nothing would stop me from doing what I loved to do. Everyday after school I would go out dirt biking, skateboarding, or bicycling. Some times you might have found me thirty feet up in a tree building a fort. I was always far from being board. My imagination was incredible. I would be able to play Ninjas with my buddies, holding paper towel rolls as swords. Now my imagination is consumed with ways to make money so I can pay bills on time. Now everyday after school you’ll find me working at a local package store in Leicester. Sometimes you might find me sleeping in bed, making up for the lack of sleep I don’t get throughout the week. The only time you’ll see me out side now is when I’m on my way to the car or walking to the mailbox.