The other day, I was filling out a form. Which form you ask? Irrelevant. It adds nothing to the story and, frankly, that's not your business. Didn't your parents teach you to value privacy? Anyway, like many, this particular form asked for a list of references. Someone that can boast without crossed fingers about my great deeds and heroic acts.
I thought about it for a second and tried to think of which "adult" I'd like to list. Obviously it couldn't be some one my own age. It has to be my boss or my boss's boss or my best friend's mom. I mean, I haven't conducted myself too crassly during our sleep overs and I eat all my vegetables. That has to count for something.
I then realized that I, Adam Hansen, can list someone of my own age without fear. I'm not committing fraud. I'm no longer 15, applying for jobs at fast food hell holes or grocery stores. I've officially reached the point in my life where my peers are considered trust-worthy people, able to comment on a person's character with an air of credibility.
Then I spilled my sippy-cup full of beer, called my mom bawling, and made her pick up a new, alcohol-free application for me. I was too embarrassed to go back again and my hands were sticky.
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