I’m at a point in my life where I get to make mistakes. Not only do I get to make mistakes, but I am expected to make mistakes. I am expected to fuck up a little, to get a little out of control and hurt myself or hurt someone else or a dig a hole that will take a while to dig myself out of. I am expected to cause some problems, and then I am expected to learn from them. I am expected to make a mess of things now, while I can still turn to my mom or my teacher or my aunt or my sister for help, and then I am expected to learn from the way these problems are resolved. I am then expected to take these problems, and these lessons, and apply them in the real world and hopefully, hopefully hopefully hopefully, I will have learned enough from them that when I take these lessons out into the real world they can help me circumvent problems that would hold more water, carry more weight, mean more in the long run. Everyone tells me that my job right now is to learn. And I believe that that means more than just “learn about logarithms.” “Learn about sentence structure.” I think that means that I have to learn things that will help me to grow as a person, and that will save me some heartache next month or next year or ten/twenty/fifty years from now. That means i have to make mistakes. That means I have to hurt. And hurt. And cry. And get jealous. And get mad. And do things that people aren’t going to understand. And do things that people will judge me for. Because if I spend the rest of my life in my little bubble I will never, ever, ever, grow past the person I am today.