Title:           Last week was your eighteenth birthday. So, you would go under later today. You
Author:          Anonymous
Pastebin link:   http://pastebin.com/UVwgqysz
First Edit:      Tuesday 26th of February 2013 07:29:15 PM CDT
Last Edit:       Tuesday 26th of February 2013 07:29:15 PM CDT

Last week was your eighteenth birthday. So, you would go under later today. You would have waited a few months more, but you felt there was no need. Your parents interpret this as, “grit,” and told you so over email.
 
You sit against the headboard and stare through the wall, avoiding the never gone glow of Central D&A through the maroon floral window shades. A haze of tinted light clings to every wall and furnishing. Your eyes are bloodshot. Seven hour flight from Guayaquil to London.
 
You would like to be drunk, but it would keep you from passing inspection in the morning. Your stomach quivers. Couldn’t eat either. If you did slip and order something from the bar under your father’s name no one would blame you, and dry-heaves don’t leave a mess to be cleaned.
 
It would still be a terrible idea. Besides, there would be plenty of time to try that later.
 
A notification pops in your peripherals.
 
“Sleep Mode?” it asks.
 
You reach out with a finger, touch a panel only you can see, and see it disappear into the home bar. You thought you had already disconnected. You hold the button down for a whole minute before it finally powers off.
 
Without the always present HUD hovering around your face to disrupt your view, you notice a small wicker basket sitting on a coffee table in the corner. You get up and off the mattress, pad toward the table, and take a look at it. It is a fine little basket. Someone obviously made it by hand, little imperfections and nicks here and there. You smile at it, then your face turns neutral when you see what is in it. A pink red fuji apple, a little statuette of Elizabeth Tower, a chocolate bar, a Twinkie, a little card reading, “Happy Trails!” written in perfect inked cursive. Interspersed among these are a handful of giftures. They depict impossible mountains, underwater cities, thousand-meter tall tree forts, all of these populated with lithe attractive beings, some human and some not,  enjoying themselves immensely. You pick up one of the small plastic sheets. It depicts a grove of living trees waving at whoever was holding the camera.
 
You put the gifture back, start back toward the bed, stop, reach over for the Twinkie, and go back to bed. You munch on the snack. You could, hypothetically, eat thousands of these a few hours from now, but this was the last time it could hurt you.