Oh, the woes of a college student.

You never told me being a grown up meant feeling tired everywhere I go, carrying anchors on my feet, letting my car drive me instead of my drive it--I am on cruise control, my pinkie barely touching the wheel. Autopilot.
You never told me growing up meant getting a shitty job, one that doesn't care about you as a human being, but rather a human, as long as the work gets done.
You never told me that one could consider themselves lucky if one likes their job. Or that paychecks, a silly little paper, represents other silly little papers (this time, silly little green papers), and that with those representations, crumpled in my pockets, you can trade them for a need, a want... it would be so much better if we just used pebbles.
You never told me the government would take away half of my hard earned silly green papers and you never told me to wear comfortable shoes.
You never told me you must pay to live, and live to pay the bills that accumulate, pinned down with magnets on my refrigerator, as if crucified, a constant reminder: to use this, you must pay for it with your hard work, fatigue, and poor attitude!
You never really told me that I must pay to learn, and that some people can't pay, so some people don't learn.
You never told me to be careful while cooking, because I may burn myself--It was always one of those childhood things, a trial-and-error lesson. "Don't touch that!" "Why?" "You'll see."
You never told me that there were other rules to life other than wait 30 minutes after eating a meal before going swimming and don't talk to strangers. No, there are more rules every day. Don't drive during red lights and don't write checks for money you don't have and don't have a dog, you'll have to pay a fine.