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On Sunday I went to a beach sculpture exhibit. And…

I’m just not a fan of art that I could do myself.

“What is this? Art By Numbers?” I asked Russell.

“No, I actually made it from scratch. Myself,” the artist responded after eves dropping.

“Oh. Well. Umm. Kudos you…Russell, my work here is done. Let’s roll.”

 

After crushing livelihoods, dreams and spending an hour of my life I will never get back looking at giant papier-mâché sunflowers, I was desperate for some real entertainment. If only so Russell didn’t have to listen to me drone on about the similarities between Julius Caesar and myself for any longer than necessary.

So I bought bubble mix and subsequently blew bubbles on the beach for three hours.

“Life is just so much more fun with bubbles!” I squealed in delight.

“You are suggestively good at blowing these,” Russell winked.

Of course I am. I smoke…

However, the surrounding children were not nearly as impressed as I was by the trillions (rough estimate) of bubbles floating through the air. At least they weren’t until I lit a cigarette and started to fill the bubbles with smoke.

“You’re like a dragon!” a three year old squealed in delight.

He has no idea.

 

There is something incredibly attractive about reverting back to ones childhood. Well, I say, “revert”, but it isn’t like I spend the rest of my time doing taxes, moping floors or anything else I envision an adult to do.

My utter refusal to grow up has been a constant stream of disappointment for my parents, who often wonder if I was dropped as an infant. Or, at the very least, swapped at birth.

“How can you get so much enjoyment from watching cartoons?” RG regularly notes while I watch “The Flintstones”, “The Jetson’s” or other artificial reality shows like “The Hills”.

“Why don’t you at least have one drink with him?” AM, desperate to marry me off, says when I have been approached by yet another lawyer, doctor or Pathological Liar.

“I am so jealous of babies who get to be pushed around in strollers,” I sigh while I have to actually walk from Point A to Point B, smoking my Marlboro Light along the way.

 

In less than one month, I will be celebrating my eighteenth birthday for the sixth year in a row.

The original celebration for the eighteenth year of my existence not only marked my official decent into grown-up-ness, but also the first time in my entire life that I was grounded.

On Birthday Night in ’02, I went to a club with my BFNF (Best Friend Not Forever) and wandered off with The First Of Many Californian Surfers. I was not seen again for three hours. BFNF decided to enlist the help of RG and AM to find me.

Suddenly, my moves to Justin Timberlake were interrupted when RG stormed into The Sugar Shack wearing flannelette pyjamas, odd socks and a murderous look on his face.

I was grounded for a month. But like any industrious child, I found a way to get out of it after just two weeks (exercising my rights as an adult, ironically, proved beneficial in this particular instance).

 

Six years on and I don’t think that it is time to grow up just yet.

I still find far too much enjoyment in the jovial juvenile entertainment that has excited me for every year up to and including this one.  

“You live in a bubble,” RG shakes his head.

And maybe he is right. He is an adult, after all.

 

Post By Salium.