As a trade-off for being able to pretend I was an only child for years, the universe decided I would possess the sickest adults on the planet to be my parents. I mean "sick" in the negative sense, as in actual illness, rather than a sick beat. The sound of hospital machinery beeping and the click of walking canes against tiled floor do not a sick beat make.

I'm taking into consideration the numerous ailments and illnesses that, together, my parents have experienced in their old age (and my youth, consequently):

I think you get it.

Not that it's their fault, of course. Don't think I blame them for being sick and, to that extent, being old. Nobody would choose to have a stroke or to lose their leg.

But youth is a funny thing. And it's difficult to reconcile with the feeling that maybe you grew up too fast, too soon. That maybe there was something you missed because there was no time to be careless and carefree. Maybe there's some quintessential childhood experience that you'll never have because that time needed to be spent speaking to doctors and sleeping in uncomfortable hospital chairs. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

That kind of thinking, however, turns you into a bitter piece of shit.