My brother found me outside the airport. She and I were tucked neatly beside one another, puffing our cigarettes and staring at the taxi traffic and the herds of people rushing around searching for their rides.
Boston, MA. Logan Airport.
He opened the door and said: Are you ready to go? He seemed to be in a rush. He was always in a rush.
I tapped out my cigarette. I stared in her eyes for a moment. I barely noticed my brother’s intrusion. Then she leaned in and gave me a tight, satisfying hug.
And she was off.
To her connecting flight.
To rural California.
To grow and sell marijuana crop.
This was the hippie chick I had met at the airport.
It was a few days before Thanksgiving. My brother had invited me to his house for Thanksgiving dinner.
I had to fly to Boston from Rutland, VT. I got a ride to the airport earlier than I would have liked, because that was the only time I could get a ride; but it’s okay, I like to be early to most places/// It gives me time to collect myself, and I get to work on my writing and I get to catch up on my reading—all alone. Like the way it usually was, for me….
I checked in at the main desk and lugged my bags upstairs. The Rutland airport was small, which meant you had to hold on to all your checked luggage until you passed through airport security, which wouldn’t be till after your plane had unloaded all of its previous passengers.
There was a large sitting area on the second floor, complete with couches and TVs and a bar and a large floor to ceiling, wall to wall, window that looked out on the barren runway. Rutland had only one plane that flew three times a day, to Boston and back, and the runway looked like a sheer wasteland of abandoned machinery and there was a slight fog that festered over the emptiness.
I was the only one there. I had the place to myself. I went and ordered a coffee at the bar. Sat down on a couch. Pulled a book from my bag and began reading it.
Moments later I saw this girl in her early to mid-20s rolling a suitcase passed the bar and finding a seat a little ways down from me.
I don’t know what it was about her, in her flannel shirt and Birkenstock jeans and rugged Timberland boots, with her long, messy blond hair and slightly freckled face. Something about her drew me in. I know what you’re thinking, I used to fall in love with every pretty girl I saw, so this could have just been one of those moments, but nah, she was different, in her own hippy kind of way.
And maybe, just maybe, I could read her a story I wrote…. Nah, she’d think I was crazy. I had an hour and a half before the flight came and so why not? why not take a chance?
I walked over on cautious footing, with all my luggage in tow, a little worried about how she might react. I didn’t like being rejected, even though rejection was as commonplace to me as anything else. So I guess I was used to it. But riding one hour on a tiny jet plane beside a girl to whom I had made an ass of myself would be rather awkward and so maybe I shouldn’t try. I started to turn around when I guess she noticed me. It wasn’t hard. We were the only ones in this large room and I wasn’t heading toward the bar and the bathrooms were downstairs and I stood there gripping my bags, in the dead center of the room, halfway between where I had previously been sitting and where this pretty girl was smiling at me, and—--
I said: Can I read you a story I wrote?
Her smile grew and she nodded and there was a twinkle in her eye that flicked and ebbed and then it was gone.
And she said: Sure.
I walked the rest of the way and sat down beside her. I propped my bags in the seat on the other side of me. Told her my name.
She told me her own///it was Katie.
I told her this was a story I wrote just a few days ago called “An American Beauty.”
When I got to the end she was still smiling and she told me it read like a rap song.
I chuckled. Yeah, I said. I wrote it in a stream of conscious.
We talked for a while. She was on her way to California to grow marijuana. I said cool. I told her I wished I could do something like that. I was just going to my brother’s for Thanksgiving dinner.
She said: It sounds like you’ve had plenty of adventures and I’m sure you’ll have plenty more.
Maybe you could go to California some time and we’d see each other again.
I kept smiling.
I know, we’ve only known each other for a few minutes but I was smitten with her, and she seemed to dig me too. I gave her my book Derelict America. We sat there and watched our plane land and we went downstairs and crossed through airport security together. We sat in the flimsy seats and I noticed our legs were touching. Our arms too.
When it was time to board the plane I was still smiling and she was dreamily nice to me and there was no awkwardness either; I felt very comfortable around her. I probably stunk of BO and had streams of sweat oozing down the sides of my face, but she didn’t care. We sat in the tiny jet plane, leg to leg, arm to arm, and she rested her head on my shoulder as the plane took off.
We touched down in Boston an hour later and we both really needed a cigarette. My brother was texting me to ask where I was, but I didn’t answer; I was lost in the moment, dancing on impulse, excited but sad because I knew this feeling was fleeting and as soon as I responded to my brother’s text, the moment would be gone and I’d have to go.
We exited the airport and found the smoking spot and we lit cigarettes and stood side by side, smoking, laughing, and watching the crowds.
My brother burst through the door and said: We gotta go now.
I said to him: This is Katie.
He looked at me like he didn’t care.
He said: Really, we gotta go.
I tapped out my cigarette and turned to her. I said bye. Started to walk away.
She grabbed me and embraced me for a few seconds and whispered in my ear: Goodbye.
Who was this angel?
I pulled away from her.
I went in the door and watched through the window as she stood out there finishing her cigarette the whole way until the wall ended and I was going up the escalator and walking to my brother’s car in the parking lot.
I threw the bottle in the air and swirling and spiraling it came straight down crashing on the train tracks and this guy at the scene scolded me for it, saying I can’t do that, and I said: But who? me? He threatened to call the police and me and DP took off to his house, to store the butterfly knife I had just gone and bought him since he was too young to buy one himself. I wore a black hoody with the hood pulled over my head and as we came back out and hit the streets I saw Harry over there standing by the corner next to some other kid a foot taller and I picked up my pace, straight running to meet him but in front of him was a parked cruiser. I stopped just short like a hockey stop if I were on skates and saw him talking to the black cop who I remembered hearing had opened-fire on some young kid’s car, for reasons I don’t know/—or can’t remember———or had forced myself to forget. I stayed in hearing range and ducked off to the side and listened as the cop said: “And Harry, keep your friend out of trouble, will ya?” The cruiser pulled away from the corner and I emerged from the shadows and dropped my hood and for once I knew I could do it again.
I am listening to Gang of Four right now. The college I went to, I chose only because the drummer of Gang of Four taught there. I didn’t like Gang of Four much at the time; they were not fast & aggressive enough to hook my ADD-riddled mind. I sat in the intake and the woman I met with could tell I listened to Punk rock. She asked me if I knew Gang of Four. I said yes. She told me the drummer taught here. Right away I was onboard. At this college is where I had met Andrew, who later became the guitarist of my old band, Lethal Erection. I went to this college for three weeks before I dropped out. Andrew went four. It was only a mere detour in my life, but a very important detour because this is where I met my best friend. I wonder about the choices we make, the reason we make these choices, our motivations and whatnot. If that woman had never told me the drummer of Gang of Four taught there, I would have gone a different way. My band had recently broken up and there was this Indian guy named Rohan who had answered my Craig’s List ad about needing a new guitarist. Rohan and I hung out a bit; he took me to this party where artsy kids drank keg cups and talked about existentialism. It was quite boring for me; I didn’t want to talk, I wanted to live—I wanted adventure excitement & romance. Rohan showed me this band called Gang of Four but I didn’t really like them very much; but now I knew who they were and when I went to that intake, the woman asked me if I knew Gang of Four and I said yes and I chose to go to that school, where I met Andrew and we stuck together like glue….
I always wonder what life would be like if I took my future more seriously. I’m a capable person. I always showed promise in everything I’d ever done. But now, at 36 years old, I have no marketable traits. I’m a writer, and a half-assed musician—kind of ___ it’s a long story. I thought I had no future. Isn’t it so much easier to think you have no future before the future comes? 36 years of fucking up and what do I have to show for it? 36 fuckin years! I have paper, and I have a pen. But that’s it. Nothing else. No priors whatsoever. No promise. Do you remember when the future used to be better? Brighter. Bigger. Whatever. It was the drugs, the booze, the depression, the nihilism, the existential angst, you know. The fuck all! I can write a story about wasting away like it’s no one’s business but my own. Then what do I do? I set the pages on fire because I have no future and there’s no use in trying. No one buys my books. I wrote created & designed these books myself because I had fuck all else to do, and no one cares. So if I were to write a note to myself five years in the future, I’d say one thing: Remember when the future used to be better? But then I’d set the page on fire because there’s no point; I don’t have a future, I never did…. Do your homework. Study. Set goals. Do something. I smoked my homework, and I shot my goals. The future only gets better if you plan for it. But I don’t see the use in preparing for it if it doesn’t get better. This is what I told myself 10-15 years ago: Nothing ever gets better, it either stays the same or gets worse. Future Self, if you’re reading this, just know, you’re a fuckin idiot for believing me!
When I was 18 I carved HATRED IS PURITY into my arm (only it was more like HATRED IS PU——, because I passed out at some point during the procedure). At the time I did it to be edgy, but now I think I get it. Having passed from being a hateful cretin to an alleged loving individual (I say “alleged” because I don’t always feel like I’m there) I realize now why hatred is so pure. When you live by the gun there is no reason to stop and question your motives. As soon as you put down the gun, all the moral questions come flooding in, the inner torment that keeps us up all night, torturous dilemmas of right and wrong; but when you live by the gun, none of that matters. It’s the purest state you can be in. I yearn for that kind of purity but I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore and as long as I don’t want to cause harm, I will never reach that state again. Love causes loss and regret, hatred gives us a sense of surety, and when we know what needs to be done, without question, boy does that sound like a heavenly state///
Covid was a journey into restlessness. When I went to San Francisco and saw people wearing masks and I heard about the Coronavirus and everyone warned us about going—aren’t you worried about getting sick? they’d say—there was no way I could have predicted a total world shut down———and thus, a restlessness, an irritability, and an acceptance would follow.
I thought the world was going to end. I was one of those people. I was wary at first. I felt like this would all blow over. But that day I went to the grocery store and saw all the toilet paper sold out, I thought maybe I should jump on the bandwagon. A store fully stocked, except for the toilet paper. So I store-hopped in search of toilet paper and hand sanitizer. We stockpiled canned food and emergency meals. We constructed bugout bags filled with all the necessities for surviving the most hostile terrain. We watched apocalyptic, end-of-the-world movies and TV series to prepare—such as Contagion and Station Eleven.
Michelle baked bread, I walked the dog and steered clear of all the neighbors. They were sick and I didn’t want to die. I thought of conspiracies: maybe this is the Illuminate’s way of separating us, because a world separated doesn’t have much of a fight when it comes to global domination.
I remembered when I was told about the secret camps this government had constructed so that they could shepherd us into them when the time was right—when we all believed that this was the safest, easiest way; the government was to be trusted and we all must pile into these camps to be taken care of like pets. We’d be pets to the Illuminate, trained and obedient because we saw no other choice. This was survival.
We built an indoor trampoline for Annmarie so that when we’d shut ourselves in, she’d have a mode of unloading all her useless energy. We cleared the living room and turned it into a roller disco.
I downloaded Spotify and started discovering new bands and downloading them so that when the shit hit the fan and the internet stopped working, I’d have plenty of music to get me through.
Michelle discovered a different sort of spirituality so that when these religious nuts showed up on our doorstep with pitchforks and torches, she’d be ready.
We bought vegetables from a local farm. Drive half an hour to a bumpy, dirty, shifty road, wait in line with masks on, and one after another, we would pull up and pick up our vegetables.
We bought a camper van. It was the only way we could travel so we took up camping because one day it might be all we had left.
We bought a new puppy.
Eventually things cleared and vaccines were being administered. I was wary; we were all wary. Do these vaccines even work? It’s mind control. We’ll all be slaves. Haven’t you ever the read the book Divergent? It’s happening just like that.
People started travelling again. Are they crazy?
We stocked up on Covid-tests. Annmarie went back to school and she wore a mask every day—is this for real? She wanted to see her friends outside of school. At the stores, people were wearing masks. Everyone wore masks. This is the end of the world. It was so depressing. We were all faceless shoppers. We had no names. What we looked like, who we were, hidden behind these veils. I told myself stories that I liked covering up my face. I don’t mind because I don’t want people seeing me. It’s why I always wear sunglasses. Michelle became agoraphobic and I started to drive more often. I used to be a nervous driver and now I drive all the time. I love to drive now. At first I had to drive because someone had to get us groceries.
Things were going back to normal.
I went to my first open-mike in years. I was just an image on a screen. It was unreal. I was condensed to a box. Facebook had won. We were all just faces. On a screen. In a box. I had so many friends and I knew their faces but I didn’t know them—we were all strangers, living in our own filtered bubbles. This was the end of civilization.
Frustrated, restless, I took to taking more errands than needed because I needed to get out and stretch my legs. I walked the dog more often than I should have because otherwise, what else would I have done with my time?
Michelle started her own business. She started selling dolls and dollhouse furniture on Etsy.
I wrote a lot. Took a lot of writing classes on Zoom.
The camper van was unsustainable because we had nowhere to store it in the winter. The guy we had bought it from said: We don’t winter in Vermont. We couldn’t just up and leave. We had a teenage girl to take care of. We would have had to keep it plugged in on days there was no sun or else the battery would die. So much for solar power. We sold it to a used car lot and made back a fraction of what we had originally paid. It was a loss we had to make.
I went to my first open-mike in person, and I was nervous. I’ve never been nervous about going onstage. I was out of practice and my anxiety was at a high.
I wore a mask. There were three other performers, two of them wore masks. There were two other people in attendance—they were not wearing masks.
I took off my mask when I read. So much for needing to hide my face.
Off stage, I mingled. The other mask-wearer played the fiddle, then took off his mask and never put it back on. I went outside, took off my mask, and looked for a cigarette to bum.
This was our world.
More and more open-mikes, less people wore masks. Is this really happening? Everything’s going back to normal. The world, as we knew it, is coming to an end.
We went to Maine and we brought masks with us on our trip. It was the first time we travelled with our new puppy, who was now a full-grown, eight-pound dog. The first time we had travelled since giving up the van. The dog who we had named Velvet sat on my lap the whole trip while Michelle drove. She was so well-behaved.
We stayed in an air B&B. Michelle showed me the town she grew up in. No one wore masks. Things were slowly going back to normal.
Every time we leave the house, Michelle brings a bottle of hand sanitizer. I used to douse both hands in sanitizer every time I left a store; now I forget to bring it with me when I leave the home.
Today we went to a large, in-door flea market. A few vendors wore masks, but only a few. People were smiling; I could see their faces as they talked. They were shaking hands. I watched them exchange products for cash and then go on their way. The crowd was huge; there were so many people, so many faces, so many germs, so much happiness and joy, that it made it rather difficult to remember that this kind of event wouldn’t have been allowed to happen more than a year ago. It almost makes me forget that these past few years were spent mostly inside, at home, with my family.
When we left, Michelle doused her hands with sanitizer and told me to hold out my own….
When I was 19, I was arrested and charged for Possession of Cocaine. We parked our truck in the Staples parking lot because we were meeting a friend when he got out of work and he worked at Staples. So we left the truck in the parking lot and walked to our dealer’s house carrying my Playstation 3. We traded him the console for a small bag of cocaine and then went back to the truck. Sitting in the truck, we each gummed a small amount of cocaine before I turned around and saw through the back window a cop coming toward the truck. I shouted: The police! Andrew rolled down the window and dumped the cocaine and tossed the bag, then rolled back up the window. The cop arrived at the truck and picked up the bag and tapped on the window. He asked us what was in the bag. Then we were arrested.
A few days later the police report came in. Andrew and I thought it was funny because there was no way the cops could have possibly scraped the amount of cocaine they said that we had had off that tiny plastic wrapping.
My lawyer was pretty good. He got me off on a Continuance without a Finding, with a year’s probation. I met with a probation officer. Every day I had to call a number and if my color was up, I had to drive to the Charleston Courthouse and go up five flights of stairs and wait in a room for my turn to stand in a bathroom where every wall was a floor to ceiling mirror and a cop in full uniform sat in the corner and watched me pee. Ever since this experience I have had a shy bladder. I assume it’s because of the trauma of having this happen that I can no longer pee when someone is watching.
One time I was at the Courthouse and I tried to pee but I couldn’t. So after a while I stepped out and had some water and sat down in the waiting room again. They let me try a second time. Still no pee came out. The cop in the waiting room told me I get one more chance and if I am not able to pee, then they will say I was positive for every drug. Well, I tried a third time and thank God, I was able to pee.
10 years later I found out that for all the drug arrests in that period of time, the charges were dropped. Apparently the two women in the drug lab were discovered to have been lying about how much drugs people had had in their possession. It was a big scandal. Now it all made sense.
Yesterday I received a check for a very large sum of money. It was said to be a settlement for my troubles. I guess that money makes up for my shy bladder.
We view the world through a narrow lens. We only see what we are capable of seeing, or give ourselves permission to see. I sit here at this new hipster coffee shop in Burlington and I ordered the most expensive cup of coffee I had perhaps ever paid for and they had only one size and let’s just say it was not quite what I had expected for five dollar and I look around me and see people looking at screens or staring into their own imaginations while reading a novel or talking- - -yes, perhaps talking, to friends—this is what I see as I sit here and sip my drink. So I wonder: What do they see? I could ask someone but that would seem creepy. Hey, what are you looking at? I mean, who does that? I remember walking in my hometown when I was much younger and I passed some tough, angry older boy and I was spaced out and I must have been looking at him but I didn’t realize it and he turned to me and was like: The hell you lookin at? I snapped back to the presence, shook my head, and stumbled away. So I’m here at this new coffee shop called Vivid Coffee although the inside doesn’t look too vivid to me. More like a wide atrium with beat-up, wooden tables and chairs and the one worn couch I’m sitting on and the scruffy hardwood floor and the station in the middle where one can order their expensive coffees. People minding their own businesses. Hipster, I’d call them. Minding their own businesses. But I would like to mind someone else’s business and find out what it must be like. Like, the other day, a Facebook friend wrote: BEING A DUDE SUCKS. Two comments under said that, basically, it’s worse to be a woman. I wrote: BEING A LIVING, BREATHING HUMAN BEING SUCKS. And it does. Everyone has their own reasons to be depressed, their own struggles. Mine happens to be life—that’s my struggle: the fact that I hate being alive and growing older and blah blah blah, you know, the boring shit that most people do and take for granted, but for me, I can’t because I’m not that vapid. I think about these things. Like the kid who puts the block in the hole again and again, or the dog that hurries after the stick and brings it back to its caretaker and then scurries off to collect the stick again. I don’t really have too much of a routine but sometimes I feel like I’m flogging a dead horse. Trying to be something more, and I feel like every day it’s the same old same old. Wake up to a gray sky and scour the sheets for my e-cig and take a few drags and then work up the strength and energy to rise out of bed, already dressed for the day, and lumber over to my medication and take a dose and fall back into bed and pass out again. Every day it’s the same old same old. Once, I woke up in the passenger seat of my own car in the middle of nowhere, with no recollection of how I had gotten there or who had been driving my car—if it was even me. I hope not, for I must have been way beyond poisoned that night. I found out later that I did not in fact drive that night—well, not really- - -thank God. I got a call from some dude—the only thing I remember about him is that he had blond, shaggy hair—who I had met in jail or something and he asked me to come pick him up and let’s smoke some weed. I was so drunk when I got the call and I might have already taken some sleeping pills to go to sleep but I said hey, why not? He drove and I fell asleep and the next day I woke up on some strange side street, late for work. Of course, I don’t have mornings like that anymore. I’m just grateful that I don’t have to search for my own mind anymore after waking up and facing the ugly morning. Today I wake up and all I have to search for is my e-cig so I can suck nicotine into my lungs, and then I feel somewhat better. Have a coffee and feel even better. No messy face full of vomit, no heavy, nasty hangovers, no cold sweats or finding out my body had been ripped apart by barbed wire. So I guess it isn’t that bad. We all have our struggles. All day I sit in front of my computer and listen to my headphones and I hate my life because I’m still alive. Does that make sense? A few weeks ago my old best friend died of a drug overdose. I wish it could have been me. I was the one who had brought him his first line of cocaine. Maybe there’s a reason I’m still here. Remember my old girlfriend Samantha? I wonder if she’s still around. When she started drinking again, she was so suicidal. But we always fought every time we talked. Last encounter with her was her messaging me on Facebook after she first got an account because I kept showing up in her friend suggestions. I ignored her. She said she didn’t mean to message me; it was an accident. After Andrew had died, though, I searched for her Facebook page to let her know—because she might have cared, she might have wanted to know———but I couldn’t find her anywhere. Maybe she blocked me so she could move on. She once admitted to Facebook stalking me when we weren’t together for a period. Maybe it was too hard for her to see mine and Michelle’s life flourishing. We’re happy together, most the time, and maybe it was too difficult so she had to, essentially, hide my page from her so she’d stop seeing me in her friend suggestions. Or, maybe she’s dead.. That’s a possibility too, I’ll admit,,,, and it makes me very sad to think about it. Everyone dies as they get older, it’s inevitable. Some people die young, and others grow into it. But we all die in the end. It’s the only way one’s life can lead. So maybe I am an important person if I’ve outlived everyone. Maybe my story must be told. This is my story and it seems to be dragging on longer than it should have. I’ve expired. Cut the cord and let me go. Everyone feels like the star of their own story, we all have a different way of viewing things, and we are all our own protagonists. It’s why it kills me. I want to be in a different story. This one sucks and has gone on for much too long. That’s all from me now. Till the next time.
It seems so real these shadows they find me in the dark
I’m just a figment of a troll’s deepest, darkest secrets haunting me so terribly I hide from the amount of stress caused by this terrible troll’s nefarious state of mind
It’s a sinners state a backwards reality where humans and monkeys coexist and we’re walking up walls and pogoing on the ceiling
Line up to come down, be carried on the back of a vulture, fly high in the sky as you wonder, oh how you wonder, why the day is so bewildered
The night is dark and the day is dim I lost my mind when my first friend died; I became complacent and fearful and I hid from the sharks
Sometimes we know we know everything, other times we think we have a lot to think about, and finally I ponder about my ponderings it’s such a wonderous world when you actually have the ability to wonder
Oh goddamn, I’m lost in a daydream again all the time I’m lost in a whirlpool of thoughts I’m convulsing in the torrential buzz of this thing and that thing so sometimes I smoke weed so I can focus on something else, worry about nonsensical worries and, so focused I delve into a tremor
I’m not sure about anything anymore, like who invented boredom apathy & depression, who dreamt up a magical state of being jaded, feeling lost and alone and the only way out might come from a conscious prick
I lose my faith when people gain too high of a faith that they must conquer my own faith with their gospel
I surrender my face more times than not I’ve fallen into a pit of quicksand and they tell me that this is no way to fuckin live but I’m stuck here and I can’t pull myself out of it
Beating my brain in a productive manner is my means to surviving I’ve unhinged a theological tantrum from the top shelf otherwise chained to a toothless grunt
Why can’t I get better because I’m trying to surrender, I want to become one with the universe but I’ve fallen too far astray and the only way out comes from a prick of self-confidence
Pick me up to knock me down I’ve lost control of the pen and all my thoughts have spilled out; what’s there left to do when you have nothing to do but scream at a wall that doesn’t listen and pound your fist at a sky that doesn’t care
Because I’m better than this, my emotional state whirls to another, whips around my noggin so ugly and rotten I scorn those that have made a choice because for me this is a lifestyle this is my saving grace life is just a dream and at times I feel so bitter this is the spirit that has carries me through the darkest of dungeons and for better or worse I’m okay and I guess I’ll always be okay
Last week I got a mohawk. I think the gay gothic boy who cut my hair was flirting with me. He was in his early 20s. I’m not gay, I’m just vain—I liked the attention.
My high school best friend is texting me every 10 minutes for the past couple months and eventually I had to stop responding so he would stop texting.
I’m 35. I figure that with all the damage I’ve done, I’m about halfway through my life.
A year younger than me, my old best best friend died of what I believe to be a drug overdose this past Christmas.
I have another old friend telling me to come to Mass and visit him. He misses me. Last time I saw him he tried to sell me his own medication. I declined.
I got another old friend sending me pictures of the good ol’ days. Everyone’s talking about the good ol’ days, like it means something. Like I wish to relive that horrible, horrible past of mine. In the good ol’ days, yeah I had fun, but that’s only because I hated myself and I wanted to die all the time and I did everything I could to escape this fact.
People thought I was fun. Now, I’m boring, they’re boring, we’re all so fuckin boring. There’s no fun anymore, no adventures to be had. Some of us still drink, but at least we’re not destroying other people’s lives and making ourselves feel like shit. At least I’m happy—er.
Sometimes I have breakdowns. I have fits. Sometimes I don’t trust the people I should be trusting the most. I’m a sensitive boy who wishes harm on no one, but sometimes I feel like I’m being tested. Like my patience is being put on the testing block.
Sometimes I still hate myself. Sometimes I still do want to die.
Sometimes I wish to relive my glory days too. Sometimes I wish I had a time machine and I could do it all over again and I wouldn’t change a thing. Just rewind and I’m back in the shitter.
Then I look in the mirror and I’m like fuck, I’m an adult now. Better start acting like one. But what does that even mean? Can someone tell me, please? There used to be, like in the 50s and 60s and 70s and 80s and 90s, a standard for adulthood and I assume when they hit the age of 18, they were forced to grow up. Every adult when I was a kid knew what they were doing. Me and all the other millennials are openly clueless.
We live in an age where all standards of living are being challenged. Including adulthood. It’s like we’ve been having a midlife crisis since our 20s and we’re still deep in it, 10 years later.
How does an adult act? I think they’re supposed to be serious all the time and take care of business. The problem with that is I’m physically incapable of taking anything seriously and I don’t seem to have any business that needs to be taken care of. So how do I grow up if I have no purpose? I don’t think I’m alone here. Everyone my age, or younger, feels like they have no purpose.
This fake brand of ethics that got the past generations through, has now been challenged and without it we are lost.
Everyone my age seems to agree with this when I talk to them. In the movies, the adults are just as openly clueless as me, because these movies were written by people who’d grown up in my generation.