I turned eighteen this year — in May, the month that I graduated high school. By coincidence, the majority of my friends turned eighteen about that time. All throughout high school we had celebrated “Birthday Month”, a time where one of our birthdays happened to fall on each of the weekends. When we turned sixteen, we each bought packs of cigarettes. At seventeen, we watched every R rated movie in theaters, two times each. And at eighteen, we decided we would each be getting tattoos.But I had a problem.