On growing up

I’d like to think that, now that I’m thirty, I’ve got a handle on life and all its incessant complications. However, I’m forced to a particular realisation: there’s no way I can consider myself grown up until I don’t have to check the milk in the fridge to see whether it’s gone off whenever I make tea. All my concerns with maturity seem to be related to milk, for some reason.

More in the discussion (powered by webmentions)

  • (no mentions, yet.)