Every now and then I get in front of the mirror to think about how it's possible that at twenty-six years, people are constantly confused with a minor. It changes my perspective when I see nineteen-year-olds, calmly, because most of the time I think they can be ten years older than me. And I don't really care. Or I wouldn't care about the violence that leads the addiction if I didn't suffer it in the day-to-day: infantilization, wedges of strangers, going with my partner to a site and the worker asking me something that belongs to me, not looking, saying that I won't be sold beers in the store, that the police call them small (with the latter I can't) or that an unknown adult man has kept asking me on the street (yes, I did). This is how we treat young people: as objects that have no agency at all. As a landfill of our frustrations. Unfortunately, at twenty-six years I continue to suffer this and more because they confuse me with a younger boy. Because in the collective imagination the bodies of the bolts have no place. Please do not treat the young as your superiors treat you.