The Anti-Mature.

I think that I'm the anti-mature. 
Because I'm a liar. 


You look at me and you think, ok, this girl is rockin' a rad haircut and has an odd fashion-sense...

(proof)

...and a kind of creepy expression... 

(more proof)

But. 


But she's also sitting in that corner reading Ulysses or Women In Love or The Complete Works of W.B Yeats so she must be kind of mature. 
If you're really observational, you may notice that the marks on my coffee cup indicate that I take my coffee without sugar and that I write notes in the margins' in all my books. And I wouldn't look like that if I wasn't at least a little serious about life. And it's true, I am, but I'm not really mature. 
I can do all of this grown up stuff, like eating healthy food and reading intelligent material and keeping up with politics and staying level in "mature conversations" about the state of the world and the election and shit like that. But then you find me on days like today and you realise that no matter how many adult skills I can master, I am going to be just a God-awful adult. 


The truth is, despite all appearances, I'm a twelve year old at heart and even though I hide this fact, people are only drawn to me because of my childish idiosyncrasies. Aimless optimism and inanities and naivety, hidden under a thin veneer of jaded cynicism. I'm still the girl who sleeps with a soft toy and cries at home because no one wanted to talk to her today. I still cant stand fighting because of my parents divorce and I remain in that state whereby everything can be related back to what I could smell when I first felt this emotion. 
I'm still so afraid of growing up.