To appropriate myself for adulthood, I have begun fretting over what I say. I spent the latter half of my teenage years stockpiling a repository of cruel and incendiary remarks, only to realize that I’ll never be able to use them unironically. It’s mentally and morally draining, and that’s just one part of adulthood. I still have a license to register, a wine cooler to stock, and tax forms to file, but this forthcoming verbal cleansing has top priority. The problem is that, growing up as an only child, I lived a nonchalant and unrestrained lifestyle. There was no brother to stuff me into mud when I threw a hissy fit, there was no sister to wail at my misgivings, and there was no grandmother around to (literally) whip me into shape. The concept of “censorship” is dubiously foreign, and I fear that I will never get used to it. Will I spend the rest of my life living as a pariah, or will I take a vow of silence and never speak again? The simultaneous pettiness and social ramifications that my quandary has on myself and the others around me poses as a dual threat, but perhaps a solution is multifaceted as well.
     

My future success lies in both my ability to self actualize myself and my maturity. Whether we like it or not, the transition into adulthood requires a growing up, and a growing up of words. The real world is a paradigm of delicate checks and balances, and it’s my responsibility to uphold civic duty. Even though the modern construct of democracy actually provides me the freedom to be a metaphorical bull in a china shop, the profoundness of my situation lies not in the question of a right to freedom, but a recognition of restraint.