1. Tonight my grandmother was looking at pictures from our trip to Asheville. “Who’s that little boy in the picture?” she asked. I was confused, until I realized what she was talking about. “Um… that’s me,” I answered. Likewise, I got a “Wow, you look really young,” about a picture taken when I was twenty-five. Thing is, I WAS young, ten years younger than I am now in fact, but still it felt weird. As far as I am concerned, I was an adult in that picture. There is no way I have been an adult long enough for me to look that much younger in pictures of me as an adult.
Me at 25, with mom and mom’s mom (hard to tell, but I was having a superlative hair night).
Me at 35, with my parents.
Oh fine, I guess I have aged unlike SOME people who shall remain nameless but from whose loins I was sprung.
2. I just realized that the picture in my last post made absolutely no sense in that context. The story I was writing about involved paint and the picture was evidence of my research into the matter. Regardless, I stand by the sentiment: acrylic paint taste like burning.
