It's funny how sometimes I'm stunned by my immediate response to the question, "How old are you?"
Uh, I'm 21.
It's standard procedure. Almost automatic even.
I mean it's strange enough that I don't feel 21 all that much, but the reality that hits me the moment my tongue lets loose those two numbers makes it all too visceral. Suddenly it dawns on me that I'm no longer a student, in the strictest sense at least (though I may return sooner than I hope, should I get into the Erasmus Mundus program).
But behold, the newly incarnated fetus-of-a-bum is resurrected from Matrixian dregs and swims in vacuous bummery. Behold the wings of outrageous fortune as they flap beyond Platonic caves, even as the sofa, in all its sullenly sunken majesty, beckons.
It's all so surreal. Two years ago, I never could've imagined myself in this position, much less surviving my course. But still I'm excited to see what the next few days/months/years will bring.
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