Adulthood

What a title, right? I think it's quite fitting to begin my first baby-steps into being an Adult With A Blog by mourning the loss of things that used to make me cool, like cool—the ever-unattainable ideal of my teenage years—was ever something that I was in the first place. I mean, sure, being able to hold my liquor better than my dad at age 18 was as close to a flex as I could get, but doing the same thing at 23 doesn't get you as many 'ooh's and 'aah's as it does concerned glances. There's a part of me that still clings onto when I was 22, the same way my 22 year old self clung onto 21, but I think the one thing more embarrassing than embracing getting older is not embracing getting older, and I'd rather be a semi-cool semi-Gen Z who accepts the fact that he's on minute fourteen of his fifteen minutes of fame than a 40 year old having the same 39th birthday party for the second year in a row.

All this to say, if you want the sage wisdom of a guy who has evidently done everything and seen it all twice, and can impart upon you the pearls of youth that he clutches onto in his rocking-slash-massage chair, then you should probably not be reading this. What? I'm 23, I'm not ancient. I'm just having a midlife (quarter-life? Oh, god) crisis and putting it online for the validation I get from being perceived. But if you're here to witness the solipsistic downfall of someone who's closest thing to fame is having a family-connection to Rick Astley, then I hope I can perform what you want.

Enjoy. Or don't. I only care a lot.