While many of you were getting down with your bad selves, best friends and a slew of nameless hard-bodied randoms in a place where the illegality of outdoor nudity is forsaken for the greater good of TV ratings, I was getting my Uno on with my silent, but deadly Uncle Fran. He is the mute old-school-game champion; this man could win millions at The Price is Right simply by pointing to Bob Barker and nodding knowingly.

After realizing that Uncle Fran had to have cut a deal with Satan, Saddam or Bob Barker himself for his uncanny mastery of Uno, I retired to my room in search of my next source of entertainment and uncovered an ancient but familiar red and blue Bugs Bunny notebook. I heard my mom’s voice behind me:Sun Podcast: A podcast is available for this column. Click here to listen to or to download it.

“You have to read that thing. God, I should never have adopted you.”

(She was kidding. She’s such a kidder. She loves me.)

After recovering from the shock that my mother had, in fact, read my 1994 diary, I opened to the first page practically [read: actually] salivating with anticipation for the ridiculousness I would discover in my seven-year-old ramblings:

Dear Diary,

Guess who I saw today. The love of my life, Jolle, I can’t believe I saw him! My heart is sinking and I can feel it coming down. His twin Jason was there, too. Oh, what am I saying, I don’t know what love is. Even if I did it would be just a school girl’s love. Oh I know what love is. I know what true love is. It’s me and Jolle. Oh, I bearly know the kid. Oh well, I can still dream, can’t I? Oh I’m so mad at him. He makes me fall into a love that is so deep, I’d practically “kill” (not really) for him. How much more is he going to torture me? I also like David, Matt and Phil.

Your Owner,

Shannan

But I didn’t laugh. I didn’t even giggle. After reading this first entry, my confusion resembled that of the first boxer who heard Mike Tyson talk shit in the ring. I recalled the seven-year-old version of me: at this age, I had already been kicked out of ballet, tap, jazz and gymnastics for “aggressive behavior” (translation: your daughter will either become a convicted felon or a D1 athlete.) I had been sent to the principal’s office once for breaking my finger on Michael’s face, then again for breaking his cheek on my cast. And yet, my most private thoughts read like Juliet on crack, like a Dashboard Confessional “song,” like my own internal monologue, today.

Dear God. I haven’t changed.

The truth is, although I have all the lateral mobility of Oprah on sedatives and all the physical grace of Fantasia’s Hippo-ballerina, I still go to sleep hoping I’ll wake up in a John Hughes film. I still believe I am a less coordinated, more inadvertently violent version of Molly Ringwald. I still would “kill” (not really) for the total hottie in my sociology lecture.

So, I asked the life-size painting of Mickey Mouse on my wall — how much have I actually grown since my vow to never love another but Jolle, David, Matt and Phil? How different is SNL from All That? Survivor from Global Guts? The truth is, I still prefer the Vital Facts of Lori Beth Denberg over Jack Handy’s Deep Thoughts, and Mo definitely out bench-presses Jeff Probst. If ever I find myself holding a red rubber ball in the middle of the Arts Quad, I would, without hesitation or mercy, instinctively chuck it at the nearest fat kid.

The day after I realized my maturity level rivaled that of a nine-year-old on steroids, my doting mother and I signed a document that made me legally independent of her. This means that 1) I am now accountable for my own actions and 2) I am legally considered an adult in this great country. I could hardly bare to look at my mother, whose pain of letting go had contorted her face in a horrible grimace, somewhat resembling a smile. Oh, she loves me so much.

Well, it’s official. The girl who recently melted, then set fire to Easy Bake, just-add-water cookies, the girl who constantly plots to poke holes in all the condoms at Gannett whenever she sees a public display of affection and the girl who still can’t high-five without transferring bodily fluids … is legally an adult.

What self-respecting grown up actually has a patented dance move as their namesake? (You don’t know about that Shannan Shuffle.) What remotely clean adult still hasn’t let go of her Monday, Friday and Saturday underwear? (Notice: whoever stole Wednesday, my dog peed on them when I was 12. Enjoy that.) Honestly, I was way more convincing as a seven-year-old ballerina.

So here’s my first bit of worldly adult advice to those of us venturing out into our second decade of existence, straight from the endless wisdom of Playgirl Magazine: fake it ’til you make it.

None of us know how to be a real adult. That gourmet chef in your hotel class can’t kick her Dance Dance Revolution habit. That well-dressed stud who reads the stock page at Trillium still violently trades Pokemon cards online. So keep your hand steady, always “have to check your schedule” and when in doubt, Wikipedia.

Shannan Scarselletta is a sophomore in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be reached at sms254@cornell.edu. Awkward Turtle appears alternate Wednesdays.