things found.

I have discovered a pattern, and that is that I tend to like men who are short (Bob Newhart, Martin Freeman) and dark-haired (Christopher Eccleston, Matt Smith) or both (Kit Harington, Peter Falk).

The important part of this pattern is that it seems to (of late) continue in real life, as well.

Well, what am I saying. My affinities for Christopher Eccleston and Martin Freeman are very important parts of my real life. But I mean in the part of life that entails interacting with humans who do not star in British television shows.

I’m listening to a very good song right now called “Teir Abhaile Riu.” I’ve been getting back into my early teenage celtifreakitude. (I love inventing words.)

The point of discovering this pattern is that the aberration which is a drummer and the other pattern of manipulative blond guys I have encountered seem to be falling by the wayside, and this pattern of short dark-haired ones is emerging.

But I’m not sure if I’m growing into myself or only growing up.

(Not quite the same thing, are they?)

I don’t know. It may just be a phase. Maybe everything’s a phase. I do struggle with that a bit – the thought that when I am fifty I will have as many and as intense existential crises as I have now, except with less time and less resilience because I will be fifty by then. What if I never figure anything out?

And then again, think of the bit where I have things figured out now that I didn’t have figured out a year ago, or two, or five. Although to be perfectly honest I can’t name anything off the top of my head. We’ll just hope I did figure out something.

Also, this week set a record for something.

To date, two of my closest friends have discussed, with me, the possibility of getting married to someone else who is not me. Both of these friends were female discussing the possibility of marring her boyfriend (one) and a guy who had randomly proposed over the internet (the other – it makes sense if you know her. And him).

And I don’t know – it just makes me realize how very close the rest of my life is.

The days are long, but the years are short. And these years are already whizzing by. I’m going to Sweden in less than one. Am I ready? Like heck. (That means no.) And after that is over, it will be as much time left in Pocatello as there was before I went to Sweden. And then I’m really an adult. (Ideally.) Like a job-holding, diploma-possessing, rent-paying one. (Help me out here, universe.) Or maybe there’s grad school, or who knows what.

I am nineteen years old today (well, not only today) and I am mildly terrified. Of what? Of being twenty, and then twenty-one, and later twenty-five and later still thirty and someday dead.

And I am honestly terrified of everything that happens in between.

Pertinent lyric from the song I am listening to: “Long, long streets before me”

I suppose what I’m getting at is that if the rest of my life all happened tomorrow I wouldn’t be ready.

But that said, the rest of my life may begin tomorrow (excuse me as I wade through the cheese surrounding that statement), but it doesn’t all happen tomorrow. Which is also scary but not so much as the alternative.

I am scared of living through every last day. It’s a lot. It’s a massive experience.

Then again, as stated, it’s better than the alternative.

Okay. I’ll shut up and go do something sensible.

 

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