quarter-life crisis

Fuck, I'm old. I'll be 25 on Monday. (Like many great people, I was born in February.) It's hackneyed, but it really does seem like I was 18 just a few days ago. What the hell happened to my ass? Oh well, I still look like I'm 18 and that's all that matters, right? Right. That's one of the cool things about my parents: they're in their early 50s but they look about ten years younger. Plus, Johnny (the old man) is black, so I've got that going for me, too. I've got really youthful, clear, elastic skin. It's softer than most of the girls I've known, which is just weird, really. Even the calluses on my fingers are soft (and I've been playing guitar for 12 years now). My ex-girlfriend Rachel was obsessed with skin and youth and would spend a frightening amount of time putting lotions and sunscreen on herself. I used to tease her about smoking and how it was going to age her prematurely, which would cause her to freak and blurt out: "I don't even wanna think about it, baby. God!" It was funny because she just turned 23 but could easily pass for 16. Waiters would swoop down on us with alarming haste whenever we hit a bar. Speaking of smoking (mmmmmmm), I'm reading this book, Survival of the Prettiest, which says that young and/or youthful-looking people may smoke to showcase their youth, i.e., as a way of flaunting that they can smoke and not worry about the cosmetic effects. Perhaps. All I know is that I have five more years of legitimate youth and I properly intend to waste it.