I like to think that I act maturely for my age. Pretentious of me, perhaps, but if nearly every person I’ve encountered in my mere seventeen years of existence has had preconceptions that I was at least two years senior my actual age (since I was little, for better or for worse), I do think I am somewhat entitled to assume so. Since I was four, my mother would chuckle at my attempts to mimic the likes of successful, career-driven women (giving presentations on what color crayon was best, how-to’s, etc. to an invisible audience) in the midst more age-appropriate antics and my obsession with creating ensembles and modeling for my mother down the wooden hallway I called my makeshift catwalk. She often called me a twenty-year old woman trapped in a child’s body, inhibited only by my actual age and size. But on occasion the five year old girl within makes cameo appearances. And those who are lucky – or unlucky – enough to witness an event as rare as catching a glimpse of a shooting star can vouch that it is quite the interesting experience. If you do wish to participate in a viewing of such revealing of…