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Last night I dreamt that all the 21-year olds in the world were struck by a debilitating disease that manifested itself as large, acne-like bumps on their skins that eventually erupted into itching, bleeding sores that spread all over the body as fast as ants can crawl. Once the body was covered in sores, the brain went next, bleeding out of both ears in gray and red wormlike chunks. As soon as the brain was done slithering out of ear canals, the person struck by the disease would be rendered incapable of speaking in coherent sentences. Then the person would commit beastly atrocities you’d never think any human being could be capable of doing. I can’t remember exactly what these atrocities were, although at some point I do recall feeling so overcome by a sense of horror that I couldn’t move a muscle even though I wanted so badly to scream and run.

I got the disease and I was panicking, crying, desperately searching for a cure because I was so so scared I’d turn into one of those moaning groaning monsters. I ran into my parents’ bedroom to ask for their help and nearly died of shock when I saw that they were covered in the scars from the red boils that once covered their clear, smooth skins. They had blood on their hands.

The disease, I was told, was called Growing Up. And there is no cure for it.