I wish I could be 15 for 2 years, and then 16 for a year, and then immediately 19 so I can be a pre-college RA, and stay 19 for another year and be a CTY RA, and then jump forward a few years and become a CTY site director. If I get tired f that I'll just be a fashion designer and a market researcher. And I will only live in the summers- I will hibernate every winter except for when it snows or when it's CHristmas. And every third Thursday I will attend the CTY talent shows and watch reenactments of "The Legend of Buff-Man" (I had seen the premiere in 2003 at SMCM- it will neve rgo out of style). And every Friday and Saturday night I will be fifteen again, and I will go to Franklin and Marshall and attend the CTY dances under the stars and run in the field to "It's THe End Of The World As We Know It" and run in boxers through the bridge of people's hands during Bizarre Love Triangle and perform the bizarre Stairway to Heaven ritual and, of course, sway in a circle and join the big wicked nearly-mosh-pit in the middle and howl during AMerican Pie, and in the end do whatever is the CTY fashion of the year, be it shouting "ORGY! ORGY!" or wrapping RAs in duct tape or falling on the floor or just simply howling at the moon and crying. And every one of those nights I will have a fresh pair of glowsticks out for SANDSTORM and I will hypnotize the entire CTY paradise and we will be one with the crickets outside and the stars above and the All Powerful Beings (APBs) and the spirits of the trees and the frisbees that litter the ground near Ben-in-a-Box and the glowsticks in my hands and the music in our hearts. And yet I'm 17, with 18 days left until I'm 18. I hate being old. Damn.