It hurts my feelings when people say I look 18, even though it doesn't actually matter

Last week 4 different people on 4 different occasions thought that I was 18 years old and/or in highschool. For reasons unbeknownst to each subsequent age-evaluator, my responses grew increasingly hostile. To their credit, they had no way of knowing that the issue had become a sore spot for me over the course of last week.
I feared the worst: that moving back home had not only led to a learned helplessness surrounding grocery shopping and other domestic tasks, but to a physical regression as well.
In a gametime decision at Eglinton West station, and largely out of opportunistic bitterness, I asked for 10 student tickets instead of 10 adult tokens- half price and at least four extremely formative years younger- the man gave them to me! And even worse, he called me sweetie. How goddam patronizing. My ego was furious that he imagined my university experience out of existence. Please don't judge. Actually, do whatever you want- just don't tell the TTC. And please, don't tell me I'll appreciate it when I'm 50- it only sends me tangentially reeling because I'm not even sure if I relate to that 50-year-old version as still me.

This issue has featured most prominently amongst parents at a hospital where I volunteer, who assume I am completing my required high school hours. I can't even bring myself to tell them I'm actually completing my required hours to be an eligible candidate for graduate studies, it's simply too embarassing for us both.
Speaking of volunteering, my all-too-predictable ego has struggled in that domain as well- Yesterday, my presence was simly not needed. There was no lonely child calling out for a playmate, no parent that desperately needed a lunch break, not even any toys to disinfect! How annoying. Not even screening a Toy Story parody in my head, inspired by the hilariously labeled "Dirty Toy Bin" in the playroom, could give me the sense of fulfillment I so desperately craved.
And that's when it hit me- I felt entiteled to heart-wrenching hugs from sick children, to crayon images spelling my name with innocently backwards letters, and maybe even to a bouquet of exotic roses from an especially appreciative parent. I felt entitled to being needed and valued by these families. Even more so, I felt entitled to a "rewarding and meaningful experience" that might provide some peace of mind, inspiration, or professional direction, AKA might make me feel good.

I felt I deserved these things, because I was setting aside THREE HOURS A WEEK that were not just about me- but yesterday I think I realized that they still were about me, that this endevor was more so self-serving than devoted to the serving of patients. Uch, dammit. What a funny little game we play, "my" ego and "me." And what a funny little game I play, imagining that I am somehow separate from it...

And, of course, what a funny little game we are all playing who have our basic human needs meant and are afforded the luxury of abstract pondering... imagining things into existence and mistaking them for absolutes, accessing stimuli with our senses and mistaking them for reality, rationalizing and intellectualizing and conceptualizing and mistaking our conclusions for objective
Note my noncommittal, fearful tiptoeing around the gaping vat of nihilism lurking behind my every existential corner.

Maybe that TTC employee got it after all. Maybe he knew I was over 18, but that by "believing" I was in highschool he created a universe in which I was, and therefore could ride the TTC at half price. Maybe he just thought, "what the hell, this is all a big joke anyways- I might as well"

Or maybe, likely, I just look young and need to get over myself and enjoy the ride- at half price!
Budum bum CHING