I’m baby. I am aware that I’m twenty years old—twenty-one in the upcoming Cancer season—but I am emphatically declaring that I’m baby.
I think this sentiment is often misunderstood.
I’m not saying that I am a baby, as in I should constantly be under adult supervision because my very soft head—despite popular belief—will not bounce like a rubber ball upon hitting the ground. It is delicate, like an overripe grapefruit. However, like a baby, I do cry frequently as a result of being unable to express my emotions otherwise because as mentioned before, my sun is in Cancer. (And my moon is in Pisces, yikes!)
I’m also not saying that I am the baby, because I am not Rumi Carter, nor am I even Sir Carter. On certain days, when I’m feeling fairly confident, I look towards the pipe dream that I could one day grow up to be Chicago West or be elegant enough to be adopted by Chrissy Teigen. That would certainly make me the baby, and then you’ll see who’s laughing, Joyce!
But listen, being baby isn’t the cakewalk that “mainstream media” will have you believe it is. It’s a state of being, and that being is perpetually sleepy, but never lets their guard down. Some of these newer babies will have you believe it’s just constant “I’m baby, pay for my bubble tea” this or “I’m baby, I don’t know how to do my taxes” that.
You have to realize, being baby means being multifaceted. It is having a safety net of expressing helplessness when self-sufficiency is your default. It gives you an escape when you feel overwhelmed by the duties of adulthood. When you are experiencing emotional strife that seems unavoidable, feeling an internal discord that tears up the very fundamental aspect of your being, you say, “I’m baby”—and suddenly you’re free.
But I didn’t make these insights because I’m baby uwu.
What part of that do you not fucking understand?
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