I Will Never Ever Ever Ever

Peter Pan, come take me away to Neverland, for I never want to grow up!

How dreary it must be to be adult. They sit still, they laugh quietly (if at all), the work all day and and only dream at night. Instead of being children, they have them and raise their own. I find it just ironic that parents scold their children for being children. Working carefully and relentlessly to drain their childish spirit away. With time they will succeed.

But not for me! For I shall never ever grow up.

I shall never be too old to fail to see the appeal of sprinkles or swing at the playground or blow bubbles or write bad poetry or use made up words or wear funny hats or stick out my tongue at people who annoy me!

I refuse to turn 18! (I conveniently canceled my birthday years ago!) I shall never be adult!

I will live at state of in between, of childish maturity. I will never, ever, ever grow up though.

Not all the way, any way.

Because what's the fun in that?

Being constantly responsible is downright reprehensible.

And never making jokes... I fear I'd go into withdrawal.

And never dreaming impossible dreams would shrink hope and make it fit into a box labeled "reality".

And how boring would that be?

How atrociously common, like an ugly little weed!

Youth is fond of dreaming, but age makes dreams so tired and so weak. So realistic.

Youth is ever resiliant, but age makes things more careful and more fragile. So jaded.

Youth. There is no fountain that contains it, not potion that procures it.

And so I will age.

That is the cruelty of time.

But I will not grow up.

You can't make me. =P

A Flippant and British Mood

I get in this certain mood. (Maybe you have it too.) When this mood strikes, certain words are way too appealing. Like, I want to use them, not because they are particularly useful in the context, but because they strike me as superior to others. They are quirky. They are strange. They aren't run of the mill. They just sound darn pretty.

Shan't. Perhaps. Since. Quaint. Forgetful. Pensive. Fashionable. Simplistic. Hop-scotch. Figurative. Majestic. Practically. Mooch.

Most of these words sound excellent with a British accent. Go on. Try it. No one's watching, and if they are, you will totally make their day.

Maybe that's all there is to the mood. Maybe it's just me feeling British.
I have a bit of a thing for accents. That's what I get for being boring and from the Midwest. I know there is supposedly a Midwestern accent. We say things like warsh or wursh rather than wash. A creek is a crick. It's actually a joke in my family because we don't. Ever. The only Midwestern quirk I can detect in my own speech is saying fur instead of for. I fail to stress the O sound. It sounds funny to say for like the number when I try to stress it.

Any way, I like to pretend to have different accents to annoy people. My British accent is fairly decent. My Southern accent is way overdone (but one of my favorites), my Irish accent makes me sound like an old man who has had a few too many shots. My Australian accent turns British after a few sentences. I took three years of French, so I have a less than horrible French accent. Spanish? Nope. I can't do it. Which is just hilarious and annoying.

Ya'll have probably figured out by now that I am an annoying person. Yeah. It's an art.

In this same mood, I love to read poetry even more than usual. This mood is dramatic. It is vibrant. It loves sharp, strong, concise emotion. I could go on and on about poetry all day. It wouldn't be very good, but I do love it, though meager my grasp upon it.

This is an atricious blog post. I rather loathe it. But I don't care. I'll post it anyway.

The mood doesn't care. It just does whatever. Thinks later.

For the cronic over-thinker, this is delicious.