12.18.2014

Eighteen

I recently reencountered the letter I wrote to myself in fifth grade that was sent to me on my high school graduation. Since I reread it I've been thinking a lot about what my eleven year old self would think of me today. While I won't pretend my 18th birthday (the day itself, other parts were great) was the best ever, I do believe that fifth grade Angela would be proud.
She would be proud that the first chance I got—which was the day after my 18th birthday—I registered to vote. I went downtown to Canal street and filled out the papers to be a NYC voter. Fifth grade Angela wrote about how disappointed she was that Hillary Clinton was not the democratic candidate, but conceded that Obama would do a fine job. Eleven year old me would be proud that I met Hillary Clinton this year. Also, on the back of my computer now there is a sticker with a picture of Hillary Clinton saying "twenty-sixteen." Mini Angela would be proud. I now have the ability to act on that civil liberty I was so excited about in 5th grade, registering to vote after turning 18. I registered in the afternoon after my last final. I then walked uptown to Columbus Circle where I caught the subway. There is so much of New York City that can be seen in an afternoon walk. I passed my least favorite part of the city, Times Square, but other than that it was all my favorite. Plus in that letter I talked about the economy and the inflated gas prices that according to me made it over four dollars a gallon, so I guess fifth grade me would see it as smart that I no longer drive a car around. Eleven year old me would be proud that I now live in the city I've dreamed of since my From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler and The Akhenaten Adventures days. While studying for and taking finals is definitely not my favorite activity, it is the intellectual stimulation that fifth grade me desired out my classes, but didn't find until college (well, possibly a couple high school classes, too).
Anyway I am 18, officially an "adult" though that means so little. I've been living alone for months. I am excited to vote. Other than that I guess this means I can get my own hotel room.
I didn't really know what photo to attach to this post. I considered one of Rory Gilmore saying "who cares if I'm pretty if I fail my finals," though in my case it was who cares if it is my birthday if I fail my finals. I also considered the picture I screenshot-ed of the happy birthday from google, but found that a little too forever alone-esque. My other option was my screenshot of my snapchat saying "now a registered NYC voter," but I thought I would spare you the lameness. So instead I leave you with a photo of 11 year old me. It is scary and even more terrifying that this was my first blogger photo from when I started this blog. The photo is from 5th grade graduation.

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