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Rated: E · Prose · Personal · #2110597
Please review this piece, mostly on the basis of my writing-style and narration.
DISCLAIMER - Oh! Oh! Oh! There is nothing going to be inspirational or informative or intellectual about this post.
*Freaking-out-alert*, this would be. Something out of my writing zone.

How many of you know that January has already been knocked down? No, that is perhaps a stupid question to ask. Question should be – “To how many of you the particular moment of knowing has hit that your year is already out of its first fragment January?” There are only twelve months in total, you know. And one of them has already been knocked down.

That means we are left only with eleven, out of which February has chosen to come up with twenty-eight days. See, February has itself given me a genuine reason to mark it under the category of being disliked. Why could this year be not a leap year? I know this year is not one of those ‘one-day longer years’ as 2017 is not completely divisible by four. I learnt this when I was a kid, the way to know if an year should be categorized as a leap year or not. All of us learnt this method, I guess. Didn’t we?

Yeah, so, while planning for innumerable things, I kind of forgot that the number of days I have is wholly a countable figure; nothing close to being countless. This probably is my first experience in being staggered by the passage of one month. A good thing or a bad one; I am yet to figure out.
Okay, a better way to see an year is through the glasses of days. That way I still have three hundred plus days, but that is just a picture to look at for calming oneself down. The truth is - I am left with just eleven months.

And probably this is the reason I do feel reluctant to go closer to my birthday month, too. It’s July by the way. So, I have got a reason to call July my favorite month, even though, this is an absurd point to mention right here. Birthdays could be considered good only if I could get cake of my choice and surprise gifts, but my next birthday will make me another year older. And that is an issue, a big one. Why couldn’t I just blow off my cake’s candles, if there would be any, and just enjoy my gifts, again, if I get any? Why is it a compulsion that I have to call myself a grown-up of twenty-three? I am fine with being twenty-two. Oh my God! Adulthood has started killing me. What would happen when I cross twenty-five? I know I would have already started feeling like a geriatric by then, which is nothing I am afraid of. I just don’t want to age this soon.
Oh! Got an idea, which is just an idea, by the way. If only I was born on twenty-ninth February, I would celebrate my birthday once in four years. That means I would age four times slower. That is it. This is what I needed. A birth date of 29th February. Just a thought, nothing serious.

As I cannot stop it from passing by, I would preferably do what I can. I will bid adieu to January with a smile, nobody said that it has to be a genuine one, and sparkle in my eyes. Using ‘sparkle in my eyes’ appealed to my fingers and eyes; it seemed little fancy to use.

I would love to bring a little change to the statement ‘I am a twentieth century girl’, if possible which is not. A change from above statement to ‘I am a twenty-first century girl’ would work fine. Just one word change. Nothing more. Can anybody do this miracle?

See, I am not freaking out, just sharing with you how it can feel like to be freaked out.
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