It’s official: my little brother’s maturity level has surpassed my own.
He had a football game yesterday, and the other team (not naming names, but if you’re a team riddled with assholes and douchebaggery that couldn’t even win graciously, then I’m looking at you) started yelling stuff at him. “You’ll never make 50 straight PATs! You gonna miss another 47-yard field goal? Go back to JV!”
Alex got bumped up to varsity when he was a freshman, so he gets a lot of crap thrown in his face. He’s fifteen now, and he handles it a lot better than I do.
Alex’s reaction: They’re just the kind of guys that think they know more than everybody else and have no respect for anyone except each other.
My reaction: WHAT THE #$%&?! WHOSE ASS DO I HAVE TO KICK? GIVE ME NAMES! ALL OF THEM! I’LL TRACK THEM DOWN! WAS IT THAT TAYLOR KID? I BET IT WAS THAT TAYLOR KID. HOW WOULD HE LIKE IT IF I KIDNAPPED HIM, LOCKED HIM IN A SHED, WITHHELD FOOD, AND TOLD HIM THAT UNTIL HE KICKS A 47-YARD FIELD GOAL, HE GETS TO STARVE? HOW ABOUT THAT? HA! HAHA!
Clearly starting college has done wonders for my maturity. (I still laugh when the ketchup bottle makes a farting noise, but I’ve stopped giggling whenever the teacher tells us to turn to page 69. Baby steps.)