Her eyes darted past the back of his head through to his mouth.

She twisted her old mouth into a shape more ugly.

I shouldn't tell you about how old she looked. I'll follow her lead the rest of my life. If I hate her drooping face, if I perceive her existance as past-prime, leathery, decomposing, painful, and pitiful, I'm fucked.

I'll change. I'm sure of it. My friends will read this and shame me, and I'll change. I'll see that getting old is beautiful. Wrinkles hold experience well earned! When I see an elderly women meet a five-inch obstacle, a pang of shame might materialize despite the training, but as God is my witness, I'll remove that thought quickly and replace it with a better truth: She simply needs help.

I was never close to any grandparent. I've made friends with random kids, but my interest never went upwards. Perhaps it's because of my Korean-American upbringing. One needs to navigate Korean culture and language skillfully to befriend an elder. I haven't figured out how to be forbidden to call someone by their name and care about their day at the same time.

Surprisingly, people joined her table . There was one young guy in the mix. He was the only one who drank beer and wore a hat.

Her eyes darted again at my friend. Her ugly face shone a bit uglier for that second. I cringed. I thought about asking my friend to turn his voice down. He talks like a megaphone is installed in his esophagus. I wish he'd shut up even now, and this whole event happened two days ago. I wish I could mold his personality, turning a few dozen knobs this way and that way, until he comes out this perfect man. Then, I'd marry him. He'd talk but quietly, and I'd talk quietly back, and we would have great manners. I would never grow old. We would drive a Tesla back home.

I would still be unhappy, but it would be a much better world.

Will this writing, publically posted, be a problem for me later on?

Drama may arise, but I'm not ashamed.

In this post, I express my disdain of aging. (Is it disdain, or is it fear?).

Aging is untouchable, universal, and taboo. Is it not true that a woman suffers from age in a way a man will never know? Why not let bare the chatter I've heard of aging women? Where does the critic think I learned these thoughts? They were not specially made for my distorted brain. They exist. I absorbed it unknowingly, unwillingly even.

Her eyes darted past the back of his head through to his mouth.

She twisted her old mouth into a shape more ugly.

I shouldn't tell you about how old she looked. I'll follow her lead the rest of my life. If I hate her drooping face, if I perceive her existance as past-prime, leathery, decomposing, painful, and pitiful, I'm fucked.

I'll change. I'm sure of it. My friends will read this and shame me, and I'll change. I'll see that getting old is beautiful. Wrinkles hold experience well earned! When I see an elderly women meet a five-inch obstacle, a pang of shame might materialize despite the training, but as God is my witness, I'll remove that thought quickly and replace it with a better truth: She simply needs help.

I was never close to any grandparent. I've made friends with random kids, but my interest never went upwards. Perhaps it's because of my Korean-American upbringing. One needs to navigate Korean culture and language skillfully to befriend an elder. I haven't figured out how to be forbidden to call someone by their name and care about their day at the same time.

Surprisingly, people joined her table . There was one young guy in the mix. He was the only one who drank beer and wore a hat.

Her eyes darted again at my friend. Her ugly face shone a bit uglier for that second. I cringed. I thought about asking my friend to turn his voice down. He talks like a megaphone is installed in his esophagus. I wish he'd shut up even now, and this whole event happened two days ago. I wish I could mold his personality, turning a few dozen knobs this way and that way, until he comes out this perfect man. Then, I'd marry him. He'd talk but quietly, and I'd talk quietly back, and we would have great manners. I would never grow old. We would drive a Tesla back home.

I would still be unhappy, but it would be a much better world.

Will this writing, publically posted, be a problem for me later on?

Drama may arise, but I'm not ashamed.

In this post, I express my disdain of aging. (Is it disdain, or is it fear?).

Aging is untouchable, universal, and taboo. Is it not true that a woman suffers from age in a way a man will never know? Why not let bare the chatter I've heard of aging women? Where does the critic think I learned these thoughts? They were not specially made for my distorted brain. They exist. I absorbed it unknowingly, unwillingly even.