I thought growing up meant I’d make a group of friends who would sit on the roofs of their town houses, smoking cigarettes and sipping from bottles of alcohol while cars drove by and people walked past on the sidewalk below. I thought it meant sleeping on a lumpy single bed next to a boy who may or may not like me back and reaching for his hand in the dark. I dreamed of being in the back seat, head out the side window while the car cruised thirty over the speed limit on back roads, cheering loud enough to wake up the neighbourhood at 3 am. I wanted girlfriends who would build me up rather than tear me down, who’d shimmy me into beautiful clothing so the boy who may or may not like me would definitely like me. Growing up, I thought I’d get over my fear of drugs and I’d be able to hold a cigarette like I’d been doing it since my teenage years like everyone else and get drunk off bottles of wine with names I can’t even pronounce, only to throw it all up later. As I get older, I realize fantasies are fantasies for a reason and I understand why reality feels so fucking mundane sometimes.
