Yesterday was my twentieth birthday. I'd spent the weekend before it freaking out a little over the whole concept of growing up, mainly listening to T-Rex's "
Teenage Dream" a lot. As it was a Sunday, the night before my birthday I played cards at Lances, and it was then that James and Tom and I decided I should run down the beach at midnight to commemorate my becoming a man. Since Tom didn't want sand in his slippers, we decided to run down the pier instead. So, at 11:58pm we found ourselves at the pier in the freezing cold of night, before running the whole length of the pier, reaching the end at the stroke of midnight. From there, the ocean and everything beyond the pier was seriously like a wall of black, whereas everything behind us was still lit by the lanterns. It was one of the five or so moments in my life so far that would make a powerful metaphorical scene in a bad arthouse film. Even though I was dying from the run there (I'm so unfit, you guys), I gave an impromptu speech about the unknown future and such, then we strolled back down the pier and blasted Kesha on the radio in the car home.
My twenties don't seem as scary anymore.
