Got a head-on collision, smashing in my guts man

Music – ZZ Top – Cheap Sunglasses

I turned 27 and, with little fanfare, I find myself old.

Growing up, I had the impression that I’d come upon the different stages of life as distinct, visible occurrences, approaching them as one does a city along a highway, forewarned by signposts and markers and lights on the horizon.

It is not so.

I have not so much come to adulthood as adulthood has come to me, showing up on my doorstep without warning or invitation like an annoying cousin needing a place to stay.  Adulthood has taken up residence and seems in no hurry to leave.  He sleeps on the couch and eats all the Frosted Flakes and never refills the fucking icecube trays.  I am afraid to invite friends over lest they come upon him wandering my apartment in his ragged tighty-whities.

I’m undoubtedly not the first to have felt this way.  I encounter people daily who are essentially fat, gray-haired teenagers; people who got old and ugly without ever managing to outgrow their petty and pathetic youthful motives and habits.  They have the same blundering self-absorption and suffocating sentimentalism they had in junior high, but these tacky affectations, almost forgivable in the young, are made exponentially more unbearable by their advanced age. Like your grandmother wearing a sequined tubetop.

These people are legion.  Many of them work in offices.  Many of them are named Carol and Burt and Isabelle, and stumble awkwardly through life, breathing and excreting and breeding, watching Survivor and going to the Olive Garden for their birthday.

It’s a bitter revelation.  To realize, as an adult, that the vast majority of other adults in the world are pretty fucking worthless.  They’re bad drivers, buck-passers,  and can’t spell.  They watch cable news and love funny cat videos on youtube.  They like Oprah. They pollute.

One cannot dwell on this, though.  It is too dangerous.  Sit too long on the edge of the abyss, dangling your legs, marveling at the endless suck of it all, and you risk falling in yourself.   You risk becoming entranced and slipping off into the dark in a moment of weakness or confusion.

Amidst this, the possibility of leading a life of consequence seems a nearly unattainable goal.

And time is short, so terribly short.  27 already.

That bitch snuck right up on me.

There is nothing for it but to keep on.  Resist the siren’s song of ignorance and domesticity and kids and minivans and company picnics and half-hearted smiles and properly filled out forms and the myth of simple pleasures and a comfortable routine.

Leave that shit for the squares.

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