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I am 33 years old. Despite that fact:

1. Puff the Magic Dragon still makes me cry, every time I hear it.
2. Whenever I make a decision, I worry about what my dad will think of it.
3. I check under the bed for monsters. Yes, every night. Feel free to judge.
4. I sort my Starbursts by color and eat the yellow ones first to get it out of the way.

I expected that at 33, I'd be a lot more "grown up" than I am. I mean, sure, I pay all my bills on time, report to work promptly every morning whether I feel like it or not, and wash my dishes, my clothes, and my hair every single day, even Sunday. But even though I don't cry, scream, stomp, and throw things when the grocery store is out of Jet Puff'd chocolate covered marshmallows, I still want to - I mean, it legitimately crosses my mind - and I feel guilty about that. I've considered trying to eat more vegetables in the hopes that it would make some sort of difference in my over-all grown-up-ed-ness (seeing as how it might aid in my aforementioned aversion to buying furniture that looks like it fits in the kind of grown-up house in which I live, among other things) but the fact remains that I don't much care for vegetables... which in and of itself doesn't help my argument with myself that I AM an adult. Adults are supposed to say things like, "Brussel sprouts fortify the spirit!" instead of muttering vaguely about how I've never much cared for green foods, right? Again, though, it probably all falls into the realm of being comfortable in one's own skin, and as I'm learning, I fill up my skin the best way I possibly can. I just don't see the harm in sometimes wishing it were a bit better skin.