I think I’m going crazy.
As far as I can tell, there are two kinds of crazy: the fun, zany kind, like a mad scientist in a kid’s show, and the oh-my-God-I-think-I’m-legitimately-losing-it kind of crazy. This is that second one. A tiny part of my brain, way in the back, is constantly yelling, “What are you doooooooiiiiinnnnnng?!” in slow motion. The other 95% of my brain is shouting back, “I HAVE NO IDEA BUT IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD PLAN AT THE TIME DO YOU LIKE PEANUTS I SURE DO HEY LOOK A NARWHAL!” Only it’s a really mean narwhal and everyone around you has a peanut allergy, so it’s not at all like being at the circus. The same part of my brain thought this paragraph would make sense. Let’s move on.
When I was four, I had a conversation with my best friend’s brother, who was a few years older than us. I don’t remember how it started, but I do remember that he was bragging about all the cool things older kids could do.
My response to this was to say, “But you can’t shoot a cannon even if you wanted to, huh?” He had no comeback.
In his defense, if someone were to say the same thing to me today, I would also be at a loss for words. For some reason, to my four-year-old self, the ability to shoot a cannon was the mark of adulthood. When you’re responsible enough to man a heavy piece of war machinery, you’re responsible enough to be a grownup.
My friends and I whine about becoming grownups a lot. There’s just so much stuff you have to do and none of it involves cannons.