There are still three months left - three-quarters of the perfect twenty years have passed. It's been a long time since I've calculated in such detail how far away I am from my birthday.
It's not like when I was a child, when someone asked me how old I was, I would bulge my cheeks and correct my mother's guess seriously: "It's five years and three months, not five years old!"
But now, as long as it's not the birthday, it's not the 21st.
No matter what, it doesn't matter how many days or hours it takes.
Ah, time flies so fast, the day of growing old and sad has arrived.
In elevators, on high-speed trains, and in convenience stores, I became more and more afraid of meeting blind children and their mothers, who would call you "Auntie" with a silly look on their face - tingling the sensitive strings in my heart.
In the powerful words of "I don't care, I'm the baby" that are concealed and cannot be argued by others, our guilty conscience about the passage of time finally overflows.
Well, I hope I can finish this piece of chicken (zero) and giant (dog) before my birthday.