I am struggling in this new world where tact equals mincing words, and politeness means not saying exactly what you mean. Adulthood feels like an endless trek through happy hours on eggshells, where the mimosas are always bottomless, but the slight is always unintentional.

Maybe that's why I have not written in a long time. This blog was my confession booth. Cathartic release had its virtues but when you reach adulthood, it can be taken as whining, being petty or just plain rude.

There is so much pent up that I'm ready to explode. But am I still brave enough to let the words flow? Adulthood has stifled that rebel voice, rounded it out and has taken away it's resonance.

Being an adult means molding yourself into the nicer, kinder, watered-down version of you so that you don't hurt others. Because being an adult means everything is a hidden attack. The last minute invite, the striking personal preferences that contrast with others, the seating arrangements and the wedding gifts – all fucking landmines.

This adult world where people are so polite that they stop being themselves, that they barely scratch the surface of another person's being.

What are we so afraid of? Looking lonely at a party? God forbid we get caught by the punch bowl with no one to talk to.

As I get older, I realize my tolerance for superficial conversations has dwindled down to nonexistence. I simply do not engage and embrace the resulting air of rudeness. To hell with politeness. One can only smile and put on airs for so long. I've lived long enough in this world to understand the consequences of my actions and I'll take responsibility for all of them.

To hell with what they think of you. Repeat this to yourself: I think very little, if at all, of you.