NB: I absolutely forbid anyone to show me any sympathy because of this post. Make fun of me, laugh at me, ridicule me. But for the sake of all that is left unrotten in this world, please stop treating me as Whistler’s mother. Come to think of it… this goes for all future posts as well.


All of the friends I hang with these days are younger than me. Most are a year younger, but some more than that. People my age don’t exist. They disappeared somewhere after high school. What I mean?

Have you ever seen a Twitter/Instagram/blog/whatever bio saying “26” or “26 year old bla bla”? It’s always below 24. 26 year olds aren’t that flashy with their age… well except for me but when have I ever succumbed to the norm (sarcasm… Inception-style)? So after 24, people simply disappear.

They get married, Norah, and have families. And real jobs. And they travel. They live adult lives.

I think I stopped caring about age sometime around 25. I realized three things:

  1. I can’t stop myself from growing older.
  2. I can’t force myself to act older.
  3. “Age doesn’t matter.”

The last one, as you probably understand, is what I realized after the first two points.

The other day in the drug store, a pharmacist asked an old lady for her cell phone number… no not like that you creep! The old lady was getting prescription meds and maybe they didn’t have any contact information stored in their database of her or something like that. Anyway so the old lady… I think she asked what that (cell phone) was, or asked the pharmacist to repeat herself or something like that. Anyway, and then the old lady said that she didn’t have one. I don’t remember the exact wording but her attitude was: “why on earth would I have that?”. Then she said something like “I don’t have those computer things either.” Like there was outright disgust in her voice towards modern communication tools.

At first I got angry. I always get angry at old people who persist in treating the world as if it’s still 1946.

And then I hoped I never become like that. Imagine year 2065, if God lets me live that long, when there are holograms and flying cars and cryo-beds and whatnot… and there I am brooding in that levitating home for old people because the Nutella they’re serving me is in the shape of a pill and Fresh Prince in Bel Air has been replaced by Real Housewives of Mars.

Maybe next year I’ll just turn 25 again. I don’t think anybody would notice anyway.