A letter

This is a post.
This is a excuse.
This is the result of not having things
This is me complaining about something I shouldn't
This is me saying I haven't forgotten about this place where I can post things I find brilliant, banal and just generally interesting. I will post soon and make up for all the lost time. I will see you again and shout like the barbaric yawp of Whitman and reference Dead Poets' Society to make me seem cultured. But this is me saying I'll be here soon enough in all my self obsessed self promoting indulgent ways so see you then.

18
 Another year passes. Yet a number doesn't mean any of the growing up it may signify nor does it represent the progression into adulthood. I'm not one to think you should place a lot of anything in a number because, it is a pointless measure of time that just it isn't you. You can be wise beyond your years, or so the idiom goes, you can also be a complete toss pot and act like an immature bastard but all of that is up to you.
 So where am I at? I am 18. I am Micheal (pronounced Mi-HAWL but never said like that ever) McCabe a conglomerate of all my shit, a collage of good and a contradictory puzzle just like the next man or woman. I don't know what this new chapter has in store for me nor do I want to know what it has planned. Maybe those blurry lights shimmering in the distance will turn out to be a whole new world filled of everything I fear, want and need.
 Wherever I am, whatever I do (and this goes for you reading this as well), know that it is the people that make you, not your bullshit. SHOUT. YELL. SCREAM. With joy, rage, brilliance, inspiration and all those other emotions hidden within yourself. Let them be known and be free.