I don't want to wear a tie.

Lately I’ve been beginning to think that getting really trashed is just not worth the overwhelming self loathing I endure the next day. Yeah I like beer bongs just as much as the next aspiring artist, but as I grace the ripe age of 21, the time has come to straighten up and fly right.

There comes a time in a young woman’s life when she must be conscious of her self - presentation. That can translate to her Facebook profile, her blog, the people she surrounds herself with, and her manners. That means no wearing her entire work uniform to the bar - name tag and all - so she could pass out somewhere and go to work the next morning without practically even opening her eyes. I’m putting my foot down. From this moment forward, I declare myself an adult. But first, a lament of my lost youth and blathering of a quarter life crisis:

I have thought long and hard about this question - What does it mean to be an adult? Not being able to eat an entire can of aerosol cheese for lunch? (guiltlessly?) Simply being responsible? Pulling out drain residue with your bare hands?
One of the biggest hardships I face as I enter the world of adulthood is the idea that I have to put on a happy face even when I hate life. Especially if I have children. They can scream and cry all they want about anything, but when my ice cream scoop falls on the ground, I have to suck it up and push on. I just don’t know if I can bear to do that. I’d much rather make a scene, cursing the lords of gravity and demand that someone, anyone, buy me another one. But how many adults to you see doing that? None. All in the name of setting a good example.

Here we are, at a strange time in life in which we don’t need a good example set for us, and yet we don’t necessarily need to set a good one for anyone. I’m terrifyingly aware that I am at a point in my life where I have very little obligations to anyone or anything.

Let me tell you a story about a party (tour) I attended once. My two friends Macey and Kate and I went to Europe for four weeks last summer. We were in awe of the fact that our sole responsibility on the (party tour) was to remain alive. While this was trying at times, we fulfilled our responsibility with flying colours and patted ourselves on the back for being so responsible. Of course, we also found some time to eat some waffles, party with locals, fight off ghosts and write freestyle raps. This voyage wouldn’t have been possible if we were in our thirties and had families. I know this. The demand for responsibility would have been much greater, and perhaps even a hindrance, particularly to the second activity, which was most time consuming. Hence, part of me looks to the future with a grim nonchalance.
As I drag myself towards adulthood with the same enthusiasm as St. Augstine sought God after throwing all those damn pears around, I struggle to find footing on the rock wall of maturity.

I really dont have any qualms with remaining free and whimsical in this life until the day I croak. But then the voice of my mother comes into mind, and the image of the family tree, (showing twin boys in my future), and I know I must fulfill my duty to the Fowlie heritage and carry on the name. Or something. Regardless, it doesn’t seem to be my sole decision whether or not I have a family. Neither is it mine to decide whether or not I grow up. Father time shakes his wrinkly fist at me every time I so much as glance at a boy from Royal St. George.

When I think long and hard about it, I cannot deny that it would truly be better for my health to give up the frivolous vices of my youth, including but not limited to thug gangsters, Bistro 422, and excessive aerosol cheese eating. I guess I could just switch to more classy substances, like Hennessy and cocaine. And I could wear a pants suit while I abuse them. I think that might be the first step to gaining a foothold on the mountain of responsibility I stand before.

Furthermore, looking back on all the shame and profanity of my high school years, I really don’t reckon I’ll have the desire to participate in house parties with a giant sponge finger when I’m 35. And no one can deny that waking up a bare mattress is as grimy as sleeping on a preteen’s sweaty moustache. Sigh.

I have no idea what any of this means.