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It’s that time of year again—time for me to whine about how I am getting older than my extracurricular activities seem to portray. Last year, I wrote about how going into your late-20s, or as I prefer to call it, “late-ish 20s,” or as everyone else calls it, “28,” was a bit discouraging, mostly because it’s getting too close to (can’t even say it) for comfort. Well, this year I’m about to try out 29, which is basically (nope, still not going to say it). Society starts to look at you differently. It’s like I can’t be just a legal adult anymore; I have to apparently be an adult adult. I still drink out of sippy cups and wear hand towels for bibs, for cryin’ out Tide sticks. And you want me to, I don’t know, run an entire household, complete with a living plant or some shit? Nah. I’m good. 29 is scary, and below are my concerns.
If you need me on Saturday, I’ll be inconspicuously mingled amongst college students, because drunk me thinks she fits right in. Except I order premium these days, at least right after pay day, anyway. .
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