And now I realise that growing up can create a void that no amount of chocolate-chipped Milanos can fill, no amount of textbooks can bury, no amount of independence can cause to abjure, no amount of rebuking can belittle, no amount of growing up can wipe out. All of us cling onto a shred of childhood and wear it as a wrinkle on the brow and face, ruefully, an ever-changing tomorrow that may wipe all our yesterdays so that when we're decrepit, so as to incur the cynicism of a blissfully facetious young adolescent that may point and guffaw and say "If that's his face, what must his scrotum look like?", we may smile and learn to love our wrinkled faces for what they are and perhaps, with a tinge of jocund affability, whisper "Damn Teenagers..."

I'm 20. Soon I shall be senile. A very good evening to you.