Ugh, I'm going to be 28 this year. For most normal people that means little more than finally being respected by your elders and qualifying for jobs which require a bit more responsibility and maturity.

But for someone like me, who is terrified of responsibility and laughs in the face of maturity, it means: in two years, you're going to have to start acting like a grownup.

The other day, I was walking down the street, going about my business, listening to the Bee Gees and bopping along. Singing, dancing, walking to the beat, shaking my shoulders, inventing little choreographies in my head and testing them out, doing the disco finger, etc. Of course I was walking on a non-arterial street, but the point is that if anyone saw me doing this the first thing they might think would be: "Now that is someone who is into her music." Or maybe "I wonder if she's drunk." Perhaps "Aah, to be young and full of life and energy, even if it makes you look like a fool."

But I'm pushing that age where it won't be so cute anymore. As I was going along, enjoying my good time, I thought to myself, "what about in five years? Ten? If I saw a 38-year-old lady doing the disco finger on the street I'd reckon she escaped a loony bin."

The problem is that I am SO silly. I am entertained by any- and everything. I do not have a refined sense of anything, much less humor. Some of my favorite recent jokes are:

"Hey, it's Ole Five Breakfasts!! What's going on, Ole Five Breakfasts?" (boyfriend eats like three different things for breakfast when he's feeling hungry. First cereal, then buns in the oven, then müsli, then a nutella sandwich, etcetera) I laughed my ass off hard, like tears streaming down my face when I thought up that one. Then I noticed he didn't get enough to eat at lunch and started poking around the kitchen. I was like "eh, it's Johnny Five Lunches!! Bwahahahahahahaha!!!" again, seriously, dying from laughter. Next day I was at it again and gently, lovingly, he goes, "seriously dear... 'Ole Five Breakfasts' isn't funny," which just made me crack up all the worse.

I had never heard something referred to as "The bomb dot com" until some hipster Latina girl on YouTube said it yesterday, and it is now my new thing. I love it precisely because it is so stupid. Christoph again was not impressed, and every time he rolls his eyes, it will make the phrase that much sweeter.

WOW MOM will never get old. I was so stoked to see a garbage can with "Wow! Wow!" on it that I had to do my WOW MOM for the camera. The fingers are the Ws or Ms, and my mouth is the O. See? Hilarious.

The worst thing about me is that while I know this shit isn't funny to anyone else, I just. can't. stop. laughing. When you're young and cute people just sort of giggle at you and think you're a bit silly/drunk/stupid, but when you get a bit older? People will just think you're homeless/mentally challenged/schizo.

I think it is TOTES unfair that I have to be a schizo, while grown men and women here walk around with stuffed animal keychains on EVERYTHING. On backpacks, purses, bookbags, beltloops, etc. Sometimes a middle-aged working man will have several on his attaché or lunch pail or whatever the hell it is that middle-aged working men drag around with them on trains. NOT fair. If you were to walk around with dirty, beat up stuffed animals attached in a hundred places on your backpack past the age of 19 in Seattle people would start directing you to the nearest VA hospital.

I also do not and will not dye my hair in raver-colors past the age of, oh wait, I'm already too old for that. Grown women go about their business with purple, orange, blue, fire-engine red hair. I don't know why fire-engine red is so popular. And they don't do it at home with Manic Panic either, we're talking sitting in a respectable salon and asking the hairdresser to please give you a cut and foil and add a bit of Vibrant Violet in there while you're at it.

So, in conclusion, there are different measures of maturity in different parts of the world, and if I have to be schizo in order to enjoy my life, then so be it. I mean, who wants to go through life not feeling the beat?