on growing up — rants — home last changed 25 December 2007 this page contains profanity.

on growing up

i want to refute, reject, and rebutt the notion of doing something when i grow up. i don't want to grow up. i'm peter fucking pan, alright? i know what it's like out there, in "the real world". i've seen it. i don't like it, i don't think it's cool, and i don't want any part of it.

i don't want a cozy little house with a white picket fence, a blonde–haired blue–eyed wife, and 2.4 mild–mannered cardboard cut–out children. i don't want to be an accountant, or a CEO, or a banker, or a software engineer. i don't want to be a grown–up.

i want to write. stories, poems, lyrics, novels, plays, about love, freedom, honor, friendship. i want to write about the things that matter. i want to explore all of life, with words and thoughts. i want to paint color onto the drab, hurl fire into the mundane, overwhelm the meaningless with excitement.

i don't care about money, or politics, or fame. i don't care about fancy houses, fast cars, or cheap thrills. i don't need a supermodel girlfriend, or a nose job, or hair plugs. i don't need a Mercedes–Benz, an indoor pool, or a condo in Bermuda. i don't want all the headaches.

i don't want an 8–to–5, it's really all just a waste of my time. see, i know that the whole system is rigged to make somebody else rich off of my time and trouble. i don't care about being rich, and i don't feel like making anybody else rich either.

i want to write. dragons and giants, warlocks and magic, damsels in distress and knights in shining armor. no destruction of the rain forests, no offshore drilling, no air pollution. just people and their triumphs and foibles, learning to live without tearing their world apart.

i know it's too much to ask for. it shouldn't be. it's a perfectly legitimate ambition. the fact that it's not realistic shows how far we've fallen, as individuals, as a race, as the ultimate lifeform on the planet we share with everything else.

i can see it now. the end of the world finally rolls around, and we all see just how badly we've fucked everything up. i'm looking out the window because i've already heard this lecture. it's not that i don't care about you, or your problems. i just don't care about rules and responsibilities, because they're not going to matter that day.

i want to write. i want to give form and substance to ideals, possibilities, once–knowns and might–have–beens. like opening the curtains, i want to pull away petty prejudices. fears and expectations are suddenly gone, like shadows under a spotlight. left is a bright world, a clean slate, a place worth living in.

it could be. it should be. let it be.