Eleven o’ clock. Friday. The paper folds easily inside my enveloping hands as I prepare it for braiding. After twisting it tightly around a straw, I set it next to the other two strands and wet my hands with Elmer's glue. After braiding, I soak the outer layer with glue and roll it inside a tube of paper towel. I set the finished product aside while I wash my hands and decide to alter my design slightly. I roll another sheet of paper around the newly-made rope, sliding straightened straws in-between the two layers as I go. After the final roll is complete, I take the single sheet of cardstock and blanket my product to completion. My creation is an artificial bone designed for the current Anatomy project, both light-weight and strong, and I am proud to have created it. After it is complete, I expand my senses and witness the ruckus throughout the room and ponder a name for the bone. I name it after a character I read in a book, but overhear some classmate naming his "the Boner", a vulgar pun describing an altogether unimpressive project, consisting of a highly thick roll of paper. Thankfully the teacher prevented their plot from being fulfilled. I let out a sigh and continue my work ...

Noon. Saturday. My forehead perspires as I spin into a backhand aimed at the base of my partner's left ear. He ducks and executes a fierce upward sidekick. I wasn't expecting that, but I manage to deflect it upward and strike the knee in the process, sending him stumbling backwards into the tall oak which, in the afternoon heat, seemed also to perspire. I explode forward into a flying kick, and he circles around me with the last of his immediate energy. The hit makes a solid whack as it connects with the bark of the tree. Anticipating my partner's next move, I spin around and use a cross block to halt his double palm strike. I quickly twist my arms, taking hold of both of his wrists and disabling them. Then, having won, I suggest we take a break. As I stand there and pay attention to the sky, I remember that Homecoming was today. "Well," I say to myself, "this is a lot more fulfilling than attending a new-age dance without a date and not a hint of teenage culture in my pocket."

My friend hears. "Ha. Yeah, it is." He comments ...

Four o’ clock. Monday. I wipe my brow and place my hand on the counter at the youth center. I see a teen couple on the couch, sitting in each others lap. I see another few at tables, their faces in their phones. I see the boys engaged in a ferocious game of Foosball, their hands flying up and down, spinning the rods with all the vigor of youth. I see some kids playing Mario-Cart on the installed Wii game system in the corner, and I see a last person at the counter to the side of me, stroking the internet with intent ... I see all this, and I am simply standing there because I have no kind of juvenile love life; I have no phone; I am not competitive enough, loud enough, to play with those boys; I do not feel like playing a videogame; and I don't have time to rent a computer and do the time-consuming things I do on the internet. And maybe that is acceptable. They are a part of me, and that choice to abstain was burned into me by the great forge of experience and solitude long ago ...

Why then do I feel so much jealousy? I run through my personal library of blame and find my parents, my private education, my Faith, my hobbies, my past friends, and I conclude that I am a product of my past experiences. But I cannot ignore the feeling that it is far greater of a difference than that. There must be secrets that I am hiding, an indescribable spirit within me that is one 'not like the others.' ...

And then I come to my senses and remember that I am truly content with that. There is no happiness like mine because I know what I want to do with the world. There is no drive like mine because I believe I can do anything to make my dreams happen. There is no preparation like mine because I have sampled new culture myself. There is no imagination like mine because I understand more than just a teenager. There is no vision like mine because I can see more than just the skin. So, if this is adulthood, then already am I an adult.