Acting your age is for boring old farts

Whether it's my addiction to PS4 or the length of my hair, someone always wants to remind me that perhaps it's time I started acting my age. And really, what does that even mean? Is there some dusty rule book tucked away in gramma's attic that states Thou Shalt Not Play Call of Duty Black Ops After Twenty-Three? And if so, who wants to reach through the cobwebs to retrieve it? Shouldn't it be retired to the furnace already? I'm no fan of book burning but sometimes exceptions need to be made.

It's a curious fact of growing older that your brain and your body are frequently at odds about how old you really are. I only know my actual age because my driver's license refuses to lie, but unless I'm staring at it I find it rather easy to forget the numbers. My head is convinced I'm still in my early twenties and while my knees beg to differ, there is no part between the two of them that says I'm too old to have a drugstore Sandy in my room or stuffed animals on my bed or put pink extensions in my hair.

While writing Nikki's story I got the urge to have my own set of kitten ears, which I promptly wore to a family member's birthday party. I felt a little silly at first but they were quite a hit with party goers of all ages and now I want some more, preferably better quality and in a variety of colors. I mean, I saw a guy in Vegas wearing a shit emoji hat so why not kitten ears amirite?

Speaking of Nikki the final draft is back to the editor now so next thing to see is the cover. So excited, can't wait to see it!