The Art Of Getting Nowhere

So I'm reading a lot of books at the moment. And that's a good thing, but I've found myself reading a lot of kids books. Books that I read as a kid and books I never read as a kid and I thought to myself 'I really should read that.' So I trawled through the depths of Amazon the other day and sought after children's books that I fancied reading, and trawled through my bookshelves and sought out books that I'd read before. I read The Little Prince, Charlotte's Web, Whinnie The Pooh, The Graveyard Book, and I loved them. Because just because they're 'designated' for children, doesn't mean an adult can't ever touch them. Especially books like The Little Prince, in which I found myself almost tearing up at this beautifully crafted piece of literature about a man yearning for a sense of childlike wonder and imagination.

I think it's because I realised I'm boring. I've literally only turned 18 about a month ago, and I've already knighted myself with the title 'boring adult'. Because most adults are, whether they like it or not or however hard they try to strain from the fact, boring. But I don't want to be that. Just because I don't like going out and getting pissed out of my mind doesn't mean I'm dull. But even saying the phrase 'you don't need alcohol to have fun', makes me sound utterly, skull-cappingly boring. (I'm struggling to find any other words for boring other than 'dull.') And I do drink, but even me saying that sounds like I'm trying to prove something. Like, please don't leave me, I'm still cool. Watch me down these shots!

But anyway, back to the point in hand. I'm very much a nostalgic person, anyway. But maybe that's just because the present-day is pretty shit and I just want to make a den out of towels whilst eating Butterkist and watching Mary Poppins. I mean, is that too much to ask? I don't want to grow up. Even though, I suppose, is too late to say that now, seen as puberty already came and went like the fucking Blitz and I have an outstanding total of 0 milk teeth left. But the point isn't completely redundant, I guess. I want to go places. And not just to get pissed and to forget going, or as I like to call it, the most expensive hangover there is. I want to go places and actually remember stuff. I want to go to Amsterdam because it's pretty, I want to go to Berlin because the food is good. I want to go to New York and Paris and shit. You know, the stereotypical 'tumblr adventure.' 

I want to read children's books, make dens and play with Lego. I love Lego. Who doesn't love Lego? Whoever says they don't is lying to you. I want to put a tent up in the back garden and have 'camp-outs' with my friends like we did when we were 10. And even though the fairy lights and 90's electric heaters were a massive fire hazard and we were literally risking our lives whilst playing M.A.S.H. - it was fine because we were having fun. And as the plastic dripped and melted and became part of my anatomy, I'd be at peace. Because my last thought would be 'Well, at least I'm living in a mansion with Tom Hardy, our 3 kids and our Bugatti Veyron.'

So I guess what I'm trying to say is, do whatever the fuck you want. But, for the love of God, don't ever mutate into a boring adult called Geoffery who never found love because he was too busy creating stock graphs for the private sector of his very inportant company on Microsoft Excel. Get out. Buy some Lego. Read books. Make a den. Go camping. (Safely, might I add, whilst lacking a dead and dying electric heater that should've been thrown away in '96.)

But apart from that, go nuts.

R.