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Dearest raging teenage hormones,

I have blamed you for most of my unwarranted episodes of sudden stupidity, used your name in vain when my logic failed to have been used appropriately, and hated your debilitating effects on my face and my body every twenty-eight days or so. Because of this I have given you a name that you probably don't deserve, but possibly secretly liked: whore-moans.

Thanks to you, I have had the (dis)pleasure of saying too much with alcohol in my blood, crying over spilled milk (aka beer), not caring about the future, going to school without a wink of sleep, dissing a friend, liking boys that don't deserve my attention, feeling incredibly insecure about my self, attaching my self-worth to the numbers on the scale -- yep, the whole buffet of "youthful misgivings."

And yet, you were also responsible for (1) the flush on my cheeks the first time I saw James Lafferty on screen, (2) my overwhelming bouts of rage over people who crossed my lines [not THE line, just my lines which I drew for myself because I'm angsty like that], (3) the spontaneity in screaming expletives in utter delight, in hugging someone from behind, and holding someone's hand, and (4) a string of other moments as a result of a sudden surge of emotions.

Twenty doesn't only sound old - it is old. It means saying goodbye to all the irrationality of the teenage years, with the expectation that you've learned enough in the last seven years of your life to stop doing stupid things. But what if I keep being stupid? What if I don't stop making the same mistakes? Losing the suffix "-teen" in my age somehow leaves no room for errors. And that scares me. At least with you in my system, I could just give a giant "Fuck y'all, I'm a teenager and I don't care!" to the world, and everyone can dismiss it as an episodic attack of the hormones.

Now, with your expiration coming near, where does that leave me? I wish you didn't have to go so soon, not with me still trying to make sense of body parts and feelings and everything in between.

One day, I'm sure I'm going to be more than glad for finally getting rid of you. My logic will thank the heavens for finally disposing of the hormones that keep distracting the brain from doing its purpose. But until then, I'm singing your praises and giving my thanks for the nights to remember and the days to regret, for the noise of exploding emotions and the quietude of hands that held.

It has been a wild ride. You may not get to stay but the feelings of having you will. And now for the last time, I sing: Let's get these teen hearts beating faster, faster.

Yours 'til the whore moans,