It must be a strange thing to come to that moment in your childhood when you realize that your life is actually, technically, your own. It’s certainly not the case that your parents feel that way, having spent the prior half decade ensuring you do not fall into holes or starve to death; your life is their problem, as far as they are concerned. It’s not even the case that you know what agency in your life truly means—and it is probably a good thing that you don’t.
It’s just that you really wanted a third consecutive pasta meal, and you have come to understand that it is reasonably arbitrary that another human being gets to choose otherwise on your behalf.
I get it. It sucks. They also write newspapers about you every day, which I imagine will also someday be an issue. Until then, it is your life; we just cannot eat another bowl of pasta.