Quarter-life Crisis

Something is happening inside my head.

My crazy is growing and I’m starting to think about and worry about things I usually couldn’t care less about. Like babies. I usually look at babies and kids and just think, “Wow. That’s what you have to do all day, and all night. Keep that tiny person alive. I can barely keep myself hydrated and healthy, and you’ve got that.”
I saw a cute baby and I had this fleeting thought of wanting one. Like a baby. A human child. That I would create.

It was quite a terrifying moment for me. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. All I knew was that I was having feelings. Real FEELINGS. And all I could think was, “Jesus Christ, I’m feeling feelings. GET THEM OFF OF ME!” Thankfully I’ve learned to deal with this occasional thought of wanting a baby. I’ve accepted it as another echelon of my Crazy. It’s like puberty for adults. You’re changing from a horrid young adult into a…I dunno, 30-year-old? Yeah. It’s coming. Three-oh.

I also give quite a lot of fucks about my future now. When you’re younger you always think you have time. Life will just happen. The lofty dreams you have will somehow come true. Except they’re not. I mean, I don’t see Tina Fey anywhere. She’s not down the hall from an office of my own. I’m not fulfilled. What the fuck, life!? This is horseshit.

So here I am, 28 years old, college-graduate, and I’m bartending again because I chose a degree that is next to useless in the city I live in. I go to Vancouver or Toronto and I could get a sweet job and feel like a successful being. But nope. I’m here. Serving beer and hangover-food to rig pigs, old creeps, and women who shoot death glares at me because, unlike them, I haven’t ballooned into a creature not unlike a walking narwhal. Ah, life. She is a mysterious cunt.

So I need a good job. I need other humans who understand sarcasm; not droids whom I waste my best jokes on, while they stand there like a cornered nun, unable to comprehend the wit I have presented to them. I’m not an asshole. Well, I am, but I mean I’m not a narcissistic dick. I don’t think I’m the greatest thing; obviously. That’s what this entire post is about. I just do think I’m capable of mildly offensive and enjoyable humour. I’ve followed a path of dark and crude humour–it’s the very best kind! It’s hard to find people whom I can relate to. Mostly I feel like I’m not from here. Like it’s pretty possible that I was dropped here by the mothership, as an experiment to see how the humans raised their young. (My hypothesis, for the record, aliens: being raised by an angry hypocrite who never wanted kids in the first place will leave a person feeling rather misplaced and partial to treacherous spells of melancholy.)

Bartending is a decent raft for this Limbo. I can be my dry, sarcastic self and it seems to heighten my tip percentage. I get a better tip when I’m an honest, sardonic asshole, than when I pretend to be…I don’t know. Normal. I also get to practice my sarcasm and perfect the art of acting. I’m kind of great at seeming like serving you this beer and plate of wings is a super enjoyable part of my life. But sure. I guess this will do. For now.

But I’m antsy and impatient, and I’d like to feel like a Person. I don’t want to end up a bored and miserable wench, counting her thigh dimples because she’s turned into a housewife with no life, who’s built like a bag of milk and tells her friends she’s busy when she’s actually staying home and playing hide-and-seek with her dog. (In his defence, he’s pretty good at it. His canine senses make him find me right away.)

They should teach a class in high school called Realism 101. Just be like, look, you silly teenage dummies. You’re living the dream right now. (Unless you grew up like me, and moving out was the greatest day of your life.) Just some kind of class to prepare these kids for a likely outcome of lost dreams and joint pain after a particularly solid night of sleep. Prepare them for the day when you see someone from high school that you haven’t seen in years, and they’ve gotten surprisingly…thick and they look at you like you just told them about your pastime of hunting puppies and skinning them to make mittens.

Also prepare them for the honesty they’ll come across ten years down the road when you’re hanging out with your group of guy friends and they inform you that you’re way hotter now than you were in high school. Just a little reminder that you were, as you believed, a homely lemon with terrible skin who refused to put the time and effort into makeup. That’s okay, I guess. They’re a great group of guys. Guy friends are great. They’re easy to hang out with, they don’t gossip and act like axe wounds, and they’re fun to party with.

I think you could find people to teach such classes very easily. I mean, I’m game. I’m blunt. I’m an asshole. And I’m not a gleaming dish of success. I’m just a 28-year-old wannabe-writer who’s striving for her own flavour of happiness. And mine tastes like being a read writer, being on first-name, funny-text-messages basis with Tina Fey, and always having a freezer full of popsicles. Man, I love popsicles.

 

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