Remember your first place on your own? No I’m not talking about the 12×10 dorm room with a mini fridge you used to hide wine coolers inside behind take out containers from the cafeteria. I mean the first place you had to put a first and last on, the first lease you signed. There was something so exciting about moving into that first house or apartment post campus living. No parents, no RAs, just you and some roommates picking out mugs and welcome mats at Target for the first time.
Eventually, the appeal of living on your own wears off, and it becomes just another thing to bitch about. Ryan never helps with vacuuming and is constantly playing Super Smash Bros until 3 in the morning even though your room is the one that’s connected to the living room. Tricia saw a spider, freaked the eff out, and broke your pint glass that said “Hot Mess” and didn’t even offer to replace it. The landlord isn’t answering your texts about getting the dishwasher fixed. It’s just kind of another part of life. Then college ends, and you move out of whatever shithole house you found that you could afford on working 20 hours a week at a Buffalo Wild Wings, got a real job, and moved onwards and upwards.
Even though you aren’t partially paying your rent with student loan money, and you’ve gone from hosting Kegs and Eggs in your backyard to having some friends over for “just a low key wine night,” there are still signs all over the place in your humble abode that give away just how dysfunctional of an adult you are. Sorry, but you’re single, you’re probably between 24-28, and it shows.
Empty Fridge, Full Freezer
If it can’t be made in a microwave and eaten directly over the sink after you run to hit “Stop” before the .01 second mark, it is not worth having in your home. There are single cups of microwavable Annie’s lining the top of your garbage can and leftover Trader Joe’s bean and rice burritos in ziplock bags just waiting for you to come home and drunkenly devour them. And at this point, Orville Redenbacher is considered a food group. You go through a once-every-three-months-or-so health kick where you actually buy produce, but then you remember you don’t know how to make anything so it just becomes a coagulated mess in your vegetable crisper that permanently stains the bottom and dings you on your deposit when you move out.
Lysol Wipes Or Bust
Come move out time, you’ll be the asshole that’s spending $100 on cleaning supplies because for the last 7 months you’ve been cleaning everything with Lysol wipes. Dirty grout? Wipe it. Spill sangria on the linoleum? Wipe that shit up. Kill a spider with your flip flop on the wall? Thank god we have wipes! It doesn’t matter that your trusty L-Dubs can’t clean glass or remove wax out of the rug when Caroline’s sea salt and caramel candle explodes on Bachelor night; they kill 99.9% of germs so it’s probably fine. Also, please, you’re too busy trying to increase your social media presence and working on your “trajectory” to be worried about cleaning. Eventually, when your parents come to town or your roommates finally yell at you for being such a slacker, you’ll have a six hour Sunday cleaning day. But until then, it’s paper towels, dish soap, your good ol’ wipes, and easy living.
The Junk Drawer
It’s usually the far left, top drawer in the kitchen. It sits there, waiting for the moment that you’re needing something like batteries, tape, or a Droid charger for that one friend who really thinks he’s sticking it to Steve Jobs by holding out with his LG 8-Whatever-No-One-Cares. But you have to open that sucker and face what a disorganized mess you truly are. Why is there twine in there? Does this flashlight even work? Why do you have duct tape covered with Justin Bieber’s face? How many novelty bendy straws does one 25-year-old need? The answer is apparently 8 and you really need to get rid of some stuff.
Until you take the plunge and either risk it on Craigslist or open a credit card purely so you can put down a good chunk of change on a sectional at Ikea, you will be rocking that $80 Balkarp until the sucker falls a part. And go ahead. Put some decorative throw pillows on it. Buy a slip cover when you finally accept that the red wine stain is never coming out. You can do all of the above, but it’s still a cheap futon. It still doesn’t change the fact that you’re 24 and haven’t invested in any real furniture except for your TV and entertainment console.
Stray Condoms Are The Only Condoms
Self-explanatory. And if you bought them last summer, they’re no good, so get your gross ass to Walgreens and replace those “ribbed for her pleasure” things you bought because they were on sale.
Empty Bottle Chic
I’m not sure what it is about the single twenty-something, but they seem to think that just by lining up washed out (and PLEASE wash them out because if you don’t that is disgusting) liquor bottles along the top of their cabinets, they have decorated. I used to think it was reserved for guys who were trying to live out their frat days but then some white girl whose name was probably something like Kaylynn turned a wine bottle with a smiley face label into a candle and girls started doing it too. You can paint it however you want: “It’s sentimental! It’s from my first girls night in this place!” or “I just really like the label on Jägermeister, breh” but call a spade a spade. You’re “decorating” with garbage.
Your Poor Excuse For A First Aid Kit
Aside from our one friend who is super prepared just incase that earthquake that will devour Seattle actually happens, the rest of us are probably surviving off of bacon bandaids we got as a gag gift, Ibuprofen for hangovers, and EmergenC. How many people have cut their finger while chopping up Kale during that one week they were being healthy, only to realize the only thing they had to stop the bleeding was tissue and scotch tape? How many times have you had to trek four blocks to the nearest Safeway to get cough syrup, DayQuil, and orange juice because you’re too dumb to stock up prior to getting sick, and the checkout guy gave you a knowing nod in solidarity? You can raise your hands, this is a safe space. I’ll freely admit that the only thing in my “first aid kit” are bandaids (Batman to be specific), Hydrogen Peroxide, tampons, Tums, and q-tips. So if you hurt yourself while we’re drinking beers, you’re on your own. .
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