Late evening, I stepped outside work for a quick smoke in the peace, cold, dark... watching nothing of interest. I thought about how this was my last day being 21 - just hours to go - and smiled.
All I did yesterday was what I normally do. Sleep in; late and rushing. Messy hair. College. Lunch on the run. Hour of two in the pub with a friend I don't see enough of. Work. Make tea and coffee for bright-eyed foghlaimeoiri (oblivious to the putrid grudges and politics in the place), and serve them smilingly while sipping one of my thickest, soupiest coffees. Home to play Xbox with my housemate and a can or two. Out for "one" to "celebrate". Fast food. Had a look at my diary - deadlines, meetings... bullshit. Late to bed.
Fairly routine... dotted with plenty of solitary cigarettes - one of my favourite ways to break up any day. 3 minutes (almost to the second) to myself, my breathing, my nicotine.
Not the most special day to anyone else - but to me it was perfect.
All I wanted to do... was what I always do. On my last, lovely day being 21.
It gets overwhelming sometimes, but fuck it. I've got it pretty good.