Alien babies: a small essay on growing up or whatever

Yesterday (5/26):

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A lights still on, sun out, one shoe dangling, possessions strewn around on top of me, faceplant, handstand get up too fast world spinning crater inducing head throbbing why is there a spoon under my pillow ohhhhh right, saturday night realization.

I am a child.

Today (5/27):

Scrubbing, washing, folding, milk and coffee filters, pump up the car at least half way, 3.5 miles and 2 loads of laundry later, realization it’s 10:30 AM.

I’m an adult!

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I’m 24 years old. The color of this year of my life is grey. I say this because as a step into the direction of maturity and wisdom, I think it’s totally intellectual and fair to declare black and white living as something for the uneducated and the ignorant.

Because shit does not make sense, shit is gray. Because some mornings you wake up and you want to die and you can’t move and there isn’t enough liquid on the planet to ail your dehydration and all you can think is IDIOT. When are you going to stop doing this to yourself! And yet, the very next day you could be so productive that Martha Stewart herself literally would stop you on the street corner and ask for your autograph if she lived in Venice, California which she never would but still.

And you look out across the barren plains that is social media and see people who are your age who are living entirely different lives with husbands and kids and a mortgage and you’re like wait, am I doing something wrong? Or are you guys wrong and I’m right? Because everyone who’s twice your age is telling you monogamy is for people over the age of 30 and to “Go out! and have fun!” and “Go get your heart-broken!” (Side note here: Um ok?? Sure! I mean I get the sentiment but saying go get your heart-broken is like the emotional version of saying, “Hey, chug this entire bottle of vodka and then survive! Cheers!”)

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And you’re like people settle down all the time when they’re my age! And it works! And they grow old and happy together. What if I want that? Huh? But on the other hand, maybe I’m supposed to be single my entire life. Sometimes people never meet anyone and they are just the crazy bag lady who lives on the corner and you’re like what’s her story and everyone’s like Idk man, but her house smells like turnips and I’m pretty sure she never takes down her Christmas tree and yesterday I saw her bow to a lampshade. And you’re like, well I’m sure she didn’t expect this to be the way her life turned out so this could totally also happen to me. So then you take great care in letting everyone know just how well-adjusted and normal you are so you can pre-prepare against any early onset bag lady-ness.

And I’m sitting here eating popcorn at 10:30 AM, thinking is this an appropriate food for this time of day? And I’m scrolling newsfeeds galore– seeing people my age popping a knee, popping proposals and subsequently, (mostly) popping out kids. And thus, because of this, some people will be saying, ‘on my 24th, my 2-year-old sang me happy birthday’. THINK ABOUT THAT. I can’t. Actually, I just did. I just imagined if I was sitting on my bed like I am and a little 2-year-old child came into my lair and looked just like me and told me happy birthday. Two words (one hyphenated). Sci-Fi. Movie. Aliens. That kid would get maced because there is no way I would believe he was real and I would assume it was an extraterrestrial attempting to hurt me. Which is essentially how I currently look at parenthood. A terrifying science fiction film starring possessed alien toddlers with features similar to mine who attempt to sing unwelcome and creepy Happy Birthday jingles to me. Now how’s that for maturity guys?

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Ironically, (or maybe not ironically as I have never quite understood the appropriate occasion to state when something is ironic or just awkwardly timed) Avril Lavigne’s “Here’s to Never Growing Up” is blaring from my computer as I type this and I can’t help but think this song is so PERFECT for my life right now because I hate it and I hate Avril for singing it because I’m like how old are you now? 29? 30? (Note: she’s 28. Round up for the purpose of this piece). It’s time to grow up Avril. HOWEVER, like I said, it is blaring from my sound system in my computer. And I’m freaking singing along. Because despite the fact that I hate this song, it’s upbeat and kind of fun and dammit if it’s not catchy.

That’s being 24. Nothing makes sense. I’m a hungover-way-too-caffeinated,-occasionally-productive kind-of-adult who is terrified of commitment, being alone forever, eating inappropriate foods at odd times of the day, my future potential offspring and that an Avril Lavigne song reminds me of my life.

Today is grey. My life is grey.

But hey, I guess this is growing up right?

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Cheers.

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3 thoughts on “Alien babies: a small essay on growing up or whatever

  1. Colby Nelson says:

    If your shit is grey, you need to change your diet ASAP. Luckily I read your blog religiously and can give you such great advice.

  2. longdeadgod says:

    Try not to worry over your thoughts or your minor actions. Try not to worry over appropriateness. Smile and try to enjoy the journey.

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