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On the death of Charles Schulz I'm growing up. I'm in that weird stage where I know I'm no longer a kid--I've known that for years, but now I'm no longer a teenager either--and I'm also not an adult. At least I won't admit it yet. And I can't believe I'm not a kid anymore. I've never been an adult before--I've always been a kid. I don't know how to be an adult. The memories I have of my childhood are wonderful, and I think I'd give anything to be able to relive them. The blissful days of the late '70s, before little sisters, before school, days when it seemed like it was always sunny, "Raindrops are Falling on my Head," Sunday breakfast, playing with the kids of the neighborhood outside for hours until it was dark outside, getting dirty, not taking a bath, my white cat who had kittens, the Disney channel, English muffins with butter, Captain Kangaroo and Bill Cosby, Sesame Street, Mickey Mouse, and Charlie Brown specials on TV. Those days are gone forever, as is my childhood. I think I'll be okay, though, in a few years when I'm able to accept the fact that I'm an adult. It's just weird right now at this in-between stage. Right now I'm crying. I'm so lame. So long, Charlie Brown.
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