Advanced Peter Pan Syndrome

So I'm back. I'm writing again. Consider this my first step to crawling out of this corporate nightmare I find myself in. Give Jack a little time to get established out in L.A. I'll be Hank Moody by 2015. But why now? Why did I start writing again. Is it because I only have 100 followers on Twitter and I'm bitter that Alyssa Millano, some 80's child star has half a million?

Side bar: I started following her because she was sitting in front of me at a Cubs game and I wanted to see if I was in her twitpic. I have since grown a severe hatred for her and her non-funny cause-oriented tweets, but for whatever reason I won't remove her.

No the reason I started blogging again is because the stories they I/we experience need to be written down, or 20 years from now I'll just be some overweight assclown trying to tell my kid how cool I used to be. Scratch that I will never have kids because I have advanced Peter Pan Syndrome.

Graduation was what...8 months ago? I still follow the comings and goings of Greek politics in Btown, I come up with any possible excuse to go down there for a weeekend to seemingly black out with Paul, and I come back to Chicago at about 4 A.M. the following Monday carrying with me a 3 day hangover.

It doesn't stop there though. I used to think it was a generational issue, that "Hey, kids born in 1987 just really like to rage!" False. I come to work with a pulsing hangover, telling my coworkers how I put down 34 shots, then proceeded to go out, fight 2 bouncers, stumble out of the Hangge Uppe at 5 am and sleep in my bushes because I lost my key. I expect nothing short of high fives or at least for them to be impressed on some sort of level. They are not. They are disgusted.

Classic example. There was supposed to be a blizzard in Lake Forest last night. My commute is already over an hour each way, I figure with 8 inches of snow on the ground, I would have a better shot hiring an Eskimo with a dogsled to get me to work. I decided to stay up in the suburbs to avoid a disastrous traffic scenario.

At this point in the story I have made a very responsible, adult decision.

Then came last night, where I proceeded to personally take down 3 bottles of wine and a bottle of Effen. Then braved blizzard-like conditions to go to empty bars in downtown Libertyville. Any event that is remotely out of the ordinary is an excuse...scratch that, provides an obligation to drink. Let's look at this week particularly: Monday...MNF. Drink! Tuesday: Blizzard. Drink!. Wednesday: Glee. Drink! Thursday start the weekend early...Friday and Saturday...SEE YA and Sunday you squeeze one more day out of the weekend.

...and it's not casually having drinks either. Every night it is a competition to see how many drinks you can have while still maintaining a pulse. Some people drink to socialize, others drink to get so out of control that others would not even consider holding them responsible for their actions.

This is why I fall victim to the Peter Pan Syndrome. This absurdity sounds appealing to me. I see no qualms with living sharing a room, living with a lot of people in a small place, going after a "Tiger Woods-esque" ploethera of different chicks. When I hear fifth years talking about how they are ready to graduate or they wish they were working I want to beat them to death with a prosthetic leg and then pee on their corpse. Or the general cloud of depression that circles the term "unemployed." I was unemployed this whole summer and it was GREAT! I traveled coast to coast over 3 months spending my parents' money and getting hammered. (Waa Waa my parents don't give me money...run up $10,000 of credit card debt and when the bill comes tell your parents you have no money. See what happens)

The point is...I'm not jealous of Derek Jeter really, or any athlete for that matter. I'm jealous of college kids and John Stamos (He has been MIA since the 99 cent long distance service 10-10-220 went down. But he still has a ton of money and gets paid alimony from Rebecca Romijn) I don't aspire to settle down or be the baseball coach. I aspire to party on a yacht with Blake Lively and the unknown author of broslikethissite.