Hello. My name is Megan. I'm 18. And I make mountains out of molehills.
I begin this entry at the exact moment I entered this world. 12:28 a.m. on November fifteenth. 'Twas a Saturday that year. And Saturday's child works hard for a living....
This means, that I am, at this moment, eighteen years old.
I've had an entry worked up for this day for over a month. Solemn, pessimistic, and utterly ridiculous. I was in some sort of mood that night, that inclined me to feel ten thousand years older than I really was.
But tonight, when faced with the number of years, I don't brush it off as perhaps I should. And neither do I embrace it and bemoan how small it is still. No tonight, it knocks me down. I feel impossibly young, awkward, and silly. I'm scared of the future. I'm scared of my age. I am not that old at all, quite true, but it's just a little older than I feel I'm ready to be. I suppose we are never really ready for anything, but I feel like I should only be turning thirteen again. I almost wish that I was only turning thirteen again...