sixthiterationtexts | UN: Twilight Sparkles

[It's video for a change, although all that's on camera is the ceiling of Sam's room at the Inn. She's been working on a mural actually. It's the underbelly of a dragon, wings outstretched as it lifts up into the sky. Still little more than a pencil outline at this point. And it's missing both a head and a finished tail. But there's an enormous amount of detailing in the scales. It's no Sistine Chapel. But then again, it's not trying to be.

The camera moves as Sam speaks, as if she's gesturing with her hand. Her face never appears, but the disaster zone that is her room appears in flashes.]

Can someone tell me what the fucking point of turning twenty two is?

I mean, seriously. Bar or Bat Mitzvah at thirteen. Quinceañera at fifteen. Super sweet sixteen, whatever the hell that is. Donate blood at seventeen. Vote at eighteen. Drink at twenty one. All the good milestones are gone. Twenty two is a filler year. And don't say you can rent a car at twenty five. My world is literally flame and rubble. I'm never renting a damn car.

[She sighs.]

Anyone still alive after that party?