It’s not you, it’s us

Wearing: Asos top, Levi shorts, CottonOn denim shirt, Topshop shoes, Lovisa rings, River Island watch
It’s Wednesday. It’s just turned 11am and we’re sitting in a local café. 
This line I wrote a week ago. And as of 12.30pm today, I unintentionally celebrated it’s anniversary. They said give it a week.
They were right. I’ve broken my “stop spending money on food” protocol (until now, I promise it was heavily enforced).
But hey, if I go down, we’re going down together. I’ve seen you across the room at Florentine’s, several tables along at Shore Rd.
The salmon bagel treat you well?
Yeah, that’s right. I’ve got a Saturday job too. No licence, but a set of keys that make me feel just as good. I see you hold yours like you’ve
been driving for a lifetime. I won’t blame you. I’m the old woman sipping tea off a tray. I’m the one listening and laughing as if I know
 about your car playing up. Try to tell me I haven’t dealt in life and it’s adultly mishaps.
Hey, if anyone asked, we’d probably tell them we’ve god damn made it. It’s the final year. Surely, people look at us and think independent.
Then, just to contradict ourselves, we’ll roll up late again. A smirk across our face. We’ll hand in a pass as if the two words acceptable 
reason somehow explain our lack of motivation or consideration. It’s not until someone puts us in our place we stop walking in so
confidently. The stride to return the day we’re ten minutes earlier.
Independence. It’s the same thing that tempts us out of the classroom everyday. It’s also the reason we continue to walk straight back in.
We know we still need them – not a fridge when we’re out of eggs benedict money, or a classroom when we decide to learn. Our teachers,
 and our parents. They’re a bit old, at times a bit rusty, but still our back up system. For all our so-called maturity is worth, it is the final
year and it’s time we acknowledged the people who got us here.
Or at least bloody share the eggs bene next time.
McKenzie xx

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