We might have the coming of the Messiah on our hands. As is apparent in my previous post, I'd recently reached rock bottom in my faith in youth and thus mankind. Just on the cusp of surrendering my hope forever, the blog gods (blods?) sent me a sign. A slap in the face.

She's wildly intelligent. She's creative, imaginative, and inspired (and inspiring). She's authentic. She's hilarious. She employs a respectable use and understanding of the modern conventions of the English language. She's adept. She's witty, kitschy, and has a natural understanding of the appropriate level of self deprecation. She's savvy, perceptive, and uber precocious. Her name is Tavi and she's twelve years old.

Rejoice! Faith restored 1000%. All she does is shop at thrift stores and play with friends; my dreams realized. She embraces her passion and quirks while harmoniously balancing natural naivete and childhood glee. I obviously must adopt her. Immediately. We can stage photo shoots, mix unlikely but successful outfit combinations, and eat ice cream for breakfast. I have two closets, let's playyyy!

I couldn't have needed the wakeup call more. Youth has nothing to do with it. While douches come in all ages, so do prodigies. Keep doing your thing, little lady.