Today it struck me that I'm having a quarter-life crisis. Y'know--the type of crisis kids now have when they realized they wasted years playing in the yard when they could have been inventing the next myspace or wedgie-proof undies. Where the fuck are my wedgie-proof undies? More importantly, where the fuck are my millions for inventing a way for idiots to connect and my ex boyfriends to stalk me?
The 1/4crisis is not something that happens overnight. It sneaks up on you as you realize your parents lied and your guidance counselor didn't give you the whole truth. "You can be anything you want!" said the parental unit (then why am I not in space looking down on the country I rule while snowboarding?). "If you don't do well in high school, you'll never get into a good school!" said the guidance counselor (I nearly flunked out of h.s., yet still got into one of the best art schools in the region on a last minute whim--too bad I got kicked out). So there you sit, twenty-three and still a sophomore (I think) in college who changed majors three times and will need to change it once more before a bachelors is obtained. You're sleeping on a couch in your dad's living room with your boyfriend of two years and wondering how long it will be before you have to fight off the inevitable question: "When are you getting married?" I'll be getting married when I can afford it. You offering to pay?
I am looking forward to a midlife crisis. By then, I hope to have the money to rent a herd of horses and declare that I am the Wonder Woman of the West as I ride (awkwardly and most likely hanging from the underside of the horse) off into the sunset. In a shiny sequined leotard and cowboy boots. And no one will say a damned thing.
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