...And have thus begun to ponder the question that I’m convinced is what leads people into that ulcerated, xanax-dependent period of their lives called adulthood. Once upon a time, I was content to wake and bake, drop a cinnamon raisen begal into the toaster, slap a few dime-store slices of turkey on it, reach for my keys...and realize I had nothing better to do than plant my skinny ass on the couch and watch season 1 of Invader Zim on the idiot box because, let’s face it, nothing’s on TV at 2:00 PM anymore.
What now?
Well, in the immediate sense, now I feel like I’m incomplete because I don’t have a job. I’ve been psychologically kicking the shit out of myself because I’ve been in southern California for a whoppin’ week and a half and I’ve only had four interviews, and only have two scheduled for this week. What the fuck happened to me? Well, the answer’s fairly obvious. Scroll up if you’re too dense to figure it out. I grew up, and boy, does it suck. On the plus side, there’s all of the nifty shit that comes with being an adult.
Apparently, friends don’t set you up on dates, you don’t necessarily graduate from college before getting pegged with a lame-ass drug charge that disqualifies you for financial aid, and your cars still go through the same bullshit problems they did when you were fresh into eighteen. There are leases, electric bills, overdraft fees, credit card statements and permanent records (they do exist, only mine’s called a rap sheet). There are piss tests at every decent job to be had which, ironically, aren’t that common. There are bad dates in the rare event you can take enough time away from worrying your ass off about everything else to actually have one. There are friends you still think about but, when you run into them on the street, haven’t the foggiest notion who you are and if you’re lucky, the feeling’s mutual. Dental plans you dream about but can’t land a good enough job to pay for, medical insurance that doesn’t cover the damage of the assraping they deal you on a monthly basis, and social security that’s taken out of your check even though you’ll likely never see a dime of it because the assholes you didn’t bother voting for don’t give a dead rat’s testical about you. Cleaning the gutters, getting by, looking ahe--
Sorry, Irvine Welsh infected my brain with an overwhelming fear of getting older long before life did. Moving on...
Obviously, I’ve been overanalyzing the hell out of my existence, and so far the only thing I’ve got going for me is that I made it to California and have a marginal chance of being able to survive out here. Plus. My car is still in one piece after the trip. Plus. I’ve managed to party with a group without pissing every last one of them off (even though one of them made a snide comment about my shoes). Plus (minus the bitch who was one hundred percent all style and no substance). There’s a few people who’ve been blowing up my phone ever since I got out, namely Jenny, Scott and Stick. Even got a phone call from Will, and that never happens. Plus. The
I guess what I’m trying to get at is that getting older is always going to suck, no matter who you are. You could have a claim on every dollar in America, and getting on in years is still going to eat ass. There is, however, solace to be found in that even though aging sucks, life doesn’t necessarily have to. You can piss away the idea of a career, live in a low-class part of town, drive a car that’s almost as old as you are, and still find a few smiles here and there.
No matter who you are, what you do, who you know or don’t know, if you play your cards right, you can still make it and have time at the end of the day to curl up next to someone of your gender of choice, and pass out secure in the knowledge that the sun will more than likely rise tomorrow, and so will you.
Keep your chin up, people. Phoenix out.
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