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< September 17, 2007 - 10:36 p.m. > I'm leaning my head against the passenger-side window; the glass is really cold. We are waiting in line forever. I sigh and close my eyes. "You know, I've spent so much time waiting to feel like an adult," I say. "Waiting for that moment where things magically sort themselves out and fall into place, that moment when relationships stop being so fucked up and juvenile, when I was sixteen I thought that I'd have definitely had that moment by now, but I'm almost twenty-two and it hasn't happened yet. The only difference is that now I'm stopped waiting for it, because it just never really happens that way, or at all." I think back to all the time I've wasted this week just wishing I could be at home. I think about the time I've wasted on everything else. I hesitate to say it, because you and I both know: I'm tired, drive me home, I need to be alone so I can feel sad about this and get it over with. And so we go.
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