January is the absolute worst. New Years is always a big fucking disappointment in which you spend $200 to drink watered down cocktails in a dark warehouse surrounded by the greasy guidos that you might expect to find in the basement of a Florence nightclub circa 3am on a Tuesday, only to be inevititably cockblocked by some cab driver named Raji, that was too busy barking Swahili at some terrorist 4000 miles away (on some drunk kids cellphone that was left in the back) to notice you and some heinous slampiece trying to hail him down.
"FUCK it! We're taking the god dam el!" you say. To which Goro replies that her feet hurt, and she needs to find her friends. Fine fuck her, you walk to the redline and inevitably get on a train heading the wrong way only to end up at 95th street in a booze covered suit and realize you're out of cash for a bus back up north.
Furthermore in January you will endure endless tweets and facebook posts about your little siblings going back to college, your NFL team gets knocked out of contention, it's cold, your morning commute is tripled by a quarter inch of precipitation and no one wants to go out because all of your friends are a bunch of prissy little bitches.
That and I get one year closer to the real world, one year closer to marriage and one year closer to spending my hard earned money on things like diapers instead of black market adderall. One year closer to having to pursue an actual career and life instead of plugging away at some shitty sales job that pays you enough to cover rent, fast food and occasionally a hundred bucks at a bottle on a Saturday night out in river north.
I think I may start lying about my age like a woman, but not because I think looking young is important, it's because with age comes an inferred responsibility code. I'll be honest when I see engagements on facebook I fucking vomit, and when I see pictures of people I went to high school with that have kids or even worse a profile picture changed to a pregnant belly I sometimes have to self mutilate to get rid of my anxiety. Then I quickly run to the fridge and down one of the many four lokos I stocked up on and throw on an IU tee and everything is better again.
I'm not sure if living in a big city makes life move faster and clearly I live in a world of overexaggeration for comedic effect, but when people at work joke with me that I should move to the suburbs to lighten my commute to work I look for the nearest object to propel at them. Moving to the suburbs is giving up. Why would I throw up the white flag at 24? Talk to someone at work that is 30 and has 2 kids an a wife...I bet they wish they hadn't given up. They could be living with 3 of their old college buds doing crazy shit like going out on Wednesdays. Instead they screen calls to their cell phone from creditors and raid the office closets for free toilet paper.
The white picket fence may have been the American dream in the 50's but the American dream for generation y is senseless hedonism and a strong "I don't give a fuck mentality." When you have the rest of your life to be bored and subscribe to society's plan going to the casino at 4am on a Thursday suddenly doesn't seem like such a bad idea. Because if you don't create these reckless experiences now you are bound to regret your boring existence later as you slowly wait to die. So live my friends, not for anyone else but for yourself.
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