There is it. It’s the center of our twenties. It’s just six days away. When did I get here? Where did all the fun go? Why do I keep reminiscing about my teen years? Oh God, I’m dying.
I am on the verge of turning 25, and I have very little to show for it. I feel panicked, nauseated, and depressed. My hypochondria has set in and I know I am definitely, without a doubt, suffering from a quarterlife crisis. Maybe I should call it my “I’ve been out of college for three years now and I still don’t have a real job” crisis. I think the latter is an extension of the former. How about that? Two for one!
Here’s how I know I’m suffering from a quarterlife crisis.
1. I miss high school and I don’t know why. I live in the same town where I went to high school. I hang out with the same people who went to high school with me. I go to the same diner for coffee. I frequent the same bar. What’s there to miss?
2. Routine. I do the exact same thing every day, and I see the exact same people every day. It’s depressing. I know I have to get out of here and away from these people, but I feel landlocked.
3. I’m bored and indecisive. I want to do something but I don’t know what. I’ve contemplated going to graduate school, traveling abroad, or joining a cult. I thought about getting knocked up but quickly decided against it once I remembered I hate kids.
4. My friends–yes, the ones from high school–are more accomplished than I am. One got out of this damn town, one has a real “big girl” job, one just had a baby, and the other works at a job she loves. Where am I? Hyperventilating in the corner.
5. Career. I’ve realized I am career-oriented and have no career. Therefore my life sucks. It’s as simple as that.
6. Hobbies. I have none. Unless daydreaming counts–then I am the master of my craft. I read, write, throw color on a canvas, and sleep. Who doesn’t?
7. Aspirations. I have no goals because I’m too broke to dream big. Even if I decided I wanted to go to graduate school, I wouldn’t be able to afford it. The only way I could travel would be via Craigslist, and for some reason, I value my (pathetic) life too much for that.
8. If I get one more rejection letter I might just kill myself. Not serious, of course. But maybe. I don’t know. I’m indecisive, remember?
There you have it. This is my quarterlife crisis at its best. What’s the remedy?
Therapy? Vacation? Religion? Meditation? Drugs? Medication? Self-medicating?
I choose booze. The answer is always in alcohol. Or maybe the answer is derived from alcohol. Perhaps it’s another one of those two-for-one deals. If I drink enough alcohol the problem will just go away, right?
Six days from now I’ll blow out my birthday candles, and if I’m lucky, I’ll be too drunk to give a fuck about turning 25.