Legally Childish
Today is my birthday.I am already eighteen years old – and I still don’t know how to open blog posts in a creative manner (
“Today is my birthday” – how unadorned and annoying and childish and amateur). But that’s right, I’m already eighteen. I’m now part of that stage – that stage when someone tries to be mature and responsible but also still wants to be juvenile and careless at the same time. That’s one of the “lifetime lessons” I’ve learned while growing up: that sometimes we don’t want to be considered an adult because we are afraid of responsibilities and committing mistakes, but we also don’t want to be looked upon as a child because we don’t want to be guarded all the time and because we want to try such “adult activities” like drinking, smoking, partying, making out, even sleeping with someone without our guardians telling us not to (although I wager everyone who had the guts had tried them already – teenage hormones). Well, I did.
I had. I’m already eighteen, and I’ve tried stuff that kids under eighteen shouldn’t. I’ve tried drinking something alcoholic but not (definitely not) smoking cigars or pot or drugs, partying (kid’s party – wait, is that counted?), and making out (I had my first kiss when I was fifteen) but haven’t tried sex (in my case, sex can wait).
The experiences and challenges I’ve went through for the past eighteen years may have influence the way I’m acting right now –
part adult, part child. You can say that I became mature at a very early age. When I was very young and could get away from my mischiefs with just making a cute face, I’ve had a normal and happy life. I had a nanny, a birthday party, a cute dress and
Barbie dolls. But the time I went to middle school was the time when my life became complicated and sour (and I wouldn’t try explaining why because it would take me forever). Hence,
maturity came insanely fast and early. With my family’s state, immediate maturity was a must. Childish matters weren’t entertained. I couldn’t bawl my eyes out every time I didn’t get what I want. I couldn’t throw tantrums when someone switched the channel while I was watching my favorite series. I couldn’t complain about my allowance. I couldn’t cry in front of them every time I missed my mom. I couldn’t curse my life when I didn’t celebrate every passing birth days I had.
Not that I hate the family that had raised me, because I really don’t. I am not a hypocrite. I owe them everything.
I love them. They didn’t do anything wrong, nor did they hurt me. I was just too selfish and insecure to still ask for a perfect life. I could have asked for a different life had it been allowed. But while I was growing up, I realized that maybe life’s really like that. We can’t just ask for something life changing and magically have it in our hands the next day.
We all go through tough times; we all have our own crosses to bear. Those who can successfully bear their crosses are the ones who can see and live life beyond its imperfections. And those who can bear them with grace had undergone rigorous poising, refinement and personality development trainings.
Growing up was –
is – hard, but definitely fun. Because of becoming mature early, my mind suddenly becomes tainted with silly and childish thoughts. I suddenly have the desire to buy coloring books, stickers, balloons, plastic balloons; ride the carousel and Ferris wheel; watch cartoons over and over again; learn magic; believe in fairies; play tag and hide-and-seek with children. All the activities I’ve done before – and have not – come rushing back and push me to act all child-like again. I like it. I like the feeling. I never would have wanted to forget about my past – to forget that I had a lot of bruises and wounds before because I tend to fall down all the time, that I once had a butterfly hair pin which was destroyed the next day because it was so cute I just had to play with them till they fall apart, that I once cried and ran back to our house’s safety because my childhood friend scared the hell out of me when he showed up with a gorilla rubber mask (he also had an ugly- and scary-looking clown mask – that was more terrifying), that I played in the rain naked (when I was very young, of course, not, like, puberty stage – I don’t think playing naked on puberty is a good idea), that I always had to stay in the bedroom or the comfort room until Michael Jackson’s
“Thriller” finished playing because I was so scared of it I almost had the burning desire to break the disc into pieces (though of course, I didn’t; my father would have killed me), that there was this boy whom I was very close to that our friends had made us a love team – which was insane (I met him again last summer, and it was really uncomfortable). I had a very awkward childhood, very complicated past, but never had I regret them (maybe some of them I hated and would never do again). My childhood is what I can always look back to, recollect, and find myself laughing or crying or laughing and crying at the same time. My past is what helped me become who I am today,
after eighteen years.
I am eighteen years old now – although I would have wished to stay fifteen or seventeen “the vampire age” forever – and I’m still myself: old soul, young mind, careless, weird and wonderful. And I’m lucky that I have tons of stories and pasts I can freely look back to, recollect, and find myself laughing or crying or laughing and crying at the same time.
If you’re wondering if I had a debut or a bash party, I didn’t. I’m not that type who likes throwing party till the sun goes up. I hate the idea of cotillions and cheesy dances and messages from friends with those unnecessary tears in their eyes. And how do I celebrate my birthdays? I treat myself to shopping and watching
Harry Potter. I can be as simple and weird and kill joy and practical like that.
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a woeful & chaotic diary since 071409
Legally Childish
Today is my birthday.I am already eighteen years old – and I still don’t know how to open blog posts in a creative manner (
“Today is my birthday” – how unadorned and annoying and childish and amateur). But that’s right, I’m already eighteen. I’m now part of that stage – that stage when someone tries to be mature and responsible but also still wants to be juvenile and careless at the same time. That’s one of the “lifetime lessons” I’ve learned while growing up: that sometimes we don’t want to be considered an adult because we are afraid of responsibilities and committing mistakes, but we also don’t want to be looked upon as a child because we don’t want to be guarded all the time and because we want to try such “adult activities” like drinking, smoking, partying, making out, even sleeping with someone without our guardians telling us not to (although I wager everyone who had the guts had tried them already – teenage hormones). Well, I did.
I had. I’m already eighteen, and I’ve tried stuff that kids under eighteen shouldn’t. I’ve tried drinking something alcoholic but not (definitely not) smoking cigars or pot or drugs, partying (kid’s party – wait, is that counted?), and making out (I had my first kiss when I was fifteen) but haven’t tried sex (in my case, sex can wait).
The experiences and challenges I’ve went through for the past eighteen years may have influence the way I’m acting right now –
part adult, part child. You can say that I became mature at a very early age. When I was very young and could get away from my mischiefs with just making a cute face, I’ve had a normal and happy life. I had a nanny, a birthday party, a cute dress and
Barbie dolls. But the time I went to middle school was the time when my life became complicated and sour (and I wouldn’t try explaining why because it would take me forever). Hence,
maturity came insanely fast and early. With my family’s state, immediate maturity was a must. Childish matters weren’t entertained. I couldn’t bawl my eyes out every time I didn’t get what I want. I couldn’t throw tantrums when someone switched the channel while I was watching my favorite series. I couldn’t complain about my allowance. I couldn’t cry in front of them every time I missed my mom. I couldn’t curse my life when I didn’t celebrate every passing birth days I had.
Not that I hate the family that had raised me, because I really don’t. I am not a hypocrite. I owe them everything.
I love them. They didn’t do anything wrong, nor did they hurt me. I was just too selfish and insecure to still ask for a perfect life. I could have asked for a different life had it been allowed. But while I was growing up, I realized that maybe life’s really like that. We can’t just ask for something life changing and magically have it in our hands the next day.
We all go through tough times; we all have our own crosses to bear. Those who can successfully bear their crosses are the ones who can see and live life beyond its imperfections. And those who can bear them with grace had undergone rigorous poising, refinement and personality development trainings.
Growing up was –
is – hard, but definitely fun. Because of becoming mature early, my mind suddenly becomes tainted with silly and childish thoughts. I suddenly have the desire to buy coloring books, stickers, balloons, plastic balloons; ride the carousel and Ferris wheel; watch cartoons over and over again; learn magic; believe in fairies; play tag and hide-and-seek with children. All the activities I’ve done before – and have not – come rushing back and push me to act all child-like again. I like it. I like the feeling. I never would have wanted to forget about my past – to forget that I had a lot of bruises and wounds before because I tend to fall down all the time, that I once had a butterfly hair pin which was destroyed the next day because it was so cute I just had to play with them till they fall apart, that I once cried and ran back to our house’s safety because my childhood friend scared the hell out of me when he showed up with a gorilla rubber mask (he also had an ugly- and scary-looking clown mask – that was more terrifying), that I played in the rain naked (when I was very young, of course, not, like, puberty stage – I don’t think playing naked on puberty is a good idea), that I always had to stay in the bedroom or the comfort room until Michael Jackson’s
“Thriller” finished playing because I was so scared of it I almost had the burning desire to break the disc into pieces (though of course, I didn’t; my father would have killed me), that there was this boy whom I was very close to that our friends had made us a love team – which was insane (I met him again last summer, and it was really uncomfortable). I had a very awkward childhood, very complicated past, but never had I regret them (maybe some of them I hated and would never do again). My childhood is what I can always look back to, recollect, and find myself laughing or crying or laughing and crying at the same time. My past is what helped me become who I am today,
after eighteen years.
I am eighteen years old now – although I would have wished to stay fifteen or seventeen “the vampire age” forever – and I’m still myself: old soul, young mind, careless, weird and wonderful. And I’m lucky that I have tons of stories and pasts I can freely look back to, recollect, and find myself laughing or crying or laughing and crying at the same time.
If you’re wondering if I had a debut or a bash party, I didn’t. I’m not that type who likes throwing party till the sun goes up. I hate the idea of cotillions and cheesy dances and messages from friends with those unnecessary tears in their eyes. And how do I celebrate my birthdays? I treat myself to shopping and watching
Harry Potter. I can be as simple and weird and kill joy and practical like that.
← older / top / newer →
a woeful & chaotic diary since 071409
Profile
Already several months had passed, and I am missing
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry more and more each fleeting day. There are just some things in life that we can never forget – especially that something that had given us knowledge, skills, strong relationships and a second home. I am glad that everything in the magical world is now at peace, since Voldemort (yes, I can now say his name; no need to be afraid) had died. I had secretly admired Tom Marvolo Riddle (Voldemort’s birth name) though, because of his intelligence, passion and love for magic. Wasn’t he very clever to think of and conjure his seven
Horcruxes to preserve his life, or form a clan of
Death Eaters who were very loyal to him and would give up their lives just for him to succeed? Not everybody can acquire that much loyalty from people these days. I do not, however, admire him for the way he had carried out all of his plans. He had a good agenda, his means just weren’t morally right. But he still is one of the darkest wizards of all time… and let’s leave it that way.
Oh, for all those who are baffled of what I’m saying here and who the heck I am, my name is
Christine Faye Ordas, and I am an alumnus of Hogwarts. I came from the bronze-and-blue-clad house of the smart ass witch Rowena Ravenclaw and her dictum
“Wit beyond measure is a man’s greatest treasure.” And yes, I know the wonderful Luna Lovegood (she’s such a darling) and Harry Potter’s first crush Cho Chang. I had just left Hogwarts last May. Right now I am trying to pursue a career in magical researches, literature and writing. It’s my dream to inscribe intellectual books, publish and sell them in
Flourish and Blotts for the future Hogwarts students’ use. I am also planning to credibly write for the
Daily Prophet, the magical world’s primary news bulletin. And of course, I will be very much honored to contribute to Mr. Xenophilius Lovegood’s
Quibbler (hence, my interest in magical researches). I have always found the Lovegoods a fascinating family, and I bet working with and for them will be very exciting. Or maybe, in Merlin’s beard’s time, I can write legends and bedtime stories like the famous – and wickedly brilliant – Beedle the Bard.
And that’s how my life goes these days. I am utterly missing my old school, my friends, the Great Hall, the bronze eagle knocker just outside the Ravenclaw common room, Professor Flitwick (the head of our house), Hogsmeade, the Quidditch matches (although I didn’t actually play for the house), the moving portraits, the castle ghosts, the pumpkins on Halloween, the giant pine trees on Christmas, Rubeus Hagrid’s (Hogwarts’ gamekeeper) tea and treacle fudge – even the crabby Argus Filch (Hogwarts’ caretaker) I miss. Maybe I can visit the school grounds sometimes and see how the magical world’s been doing since Voldemort died (I’ve been spending my months in the muggle world, you see). I’ve heard everybody’s been moving on and starting all over again; the ministry is back on work under Kingsley Shacklebolt; and Harry Potter’s scar haven’t been disturbing him since.
All is well, indeed.
And because of that, we should celebrate and drink firewhisky! Oh, I still don’t drink firewhisky; I can take butterbeer or tea or pumpkin juice – just not firewhisky, please.
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