What a noughties title. Doesn’t it bring back memories of every grungy song you ever loved? Now, this rant could in fact be a Simple Plan song, so buckle up, put on your favourite tartan shirt and muster your inner – or outer, because you know you still wail along to all those songs – existentialist.
You are ‘adulting’. It’s a rather weird concept. No one tells you when you’ve properly reached that point, and it’s quite the shock to the system.
The biggest problem in life used to be deciding who pinched your thumb in Heads Down Thumbs Up, but who cares about Michael’s snot-covered fingers when you’ve got to balance your foremost, grown-up priorities of three, untouched 5,000-word essays that are due in a week, meeting with your tutors to critique the final drafts of said untouched essays, and Shabang this Friday?
Remember playtime? Playtime used to be in the morning, lunchtime and if you were lucky, before hometime. Now, you’re lucky if you have any time at all to type the letter ‘p’ into your URL without the panic of anyone else seeing what inevitably pops up as the first suggestion, and aggressively indulge in what can only be described as a live re-enactment of Gone in 60 Seconds.
What if you liked a kid in your class? You’d tug on her hair or corner him in the playground for a hug. Recycling those tactics fifteen years later however will most likely result in a restraining order.
I’m having fun with these comparisons so I’m just going to continue.
You’re in school one day, making fun of the huge rucksacks mounted atop every Year 7, knowing fully well that you too once delighted in your inconvenient ability to avoid using your locker. As you delightfully mature into a moody sixteen-year-old, you try and be as adult as possible, either getting a fringe to signify such a drastic life change or finally cutting off your mop of hair (I’m looking at you, Zac Efron hair clones). However, when you reach university, you simply undo all these years of insisting that you ARE responsible enough to handle more than one glass of wine at the dinner table, thank you very much, mum and dad. No, at university, you regress back to your childhood, fascinating yourself with discovery. The recurring illusion, for instance, of the dirty plates stacked up in your sink one day disappearing and reappearing clean in your cupboard, in neat little piles. Shame. And no, I don’t mean the ‘shame’ that stains your parents’ cheeks when they come to visit you at university. I mean ‘shame’ as in the haunting word chanted by that absurdly tall nun to which Cersei Lannister was made to march naked through a jeering crowd. Do your own dishes, you ANIMAL.
It doesn’t end there.
After you graduate, you have to grow a pair of
balls whiskers and a tail because you’re now about to enter the race of your life: a never-ending, coffee-fuelled, work-wrought, child-unfriendly race. Before I make you want to step off that ledge my friend (remember Third Eye Blind?) with all this depressing drivel, I’ll present to you this fun scenario:
Lie in until 10am. Eat cereal. The healthy stuff. OK, fine, Coco Pops. Stay in your pyjamas all day if you want, check your emails, make some phone calls, Netflix a few old episodes of Archer, lunch, more Netflix, some – hey, have you done that assignment – goddamn it Charlotte, can’t you see I’m busy watching Tom and Jerry right now – eat snacks, browse Facebook, read a book if you’re still a tiny bit convinced today’s going somewhere, maybe listen to some music, whatever you feel like doing, and then back to your warm, cosy bed at the end of an unproductive but relaxing day.
This might be a recount of your average weekend, or even a normal day if you are the archetypal student, but why can’t it be more normal? Why can’t we still drink Yahoos, sleep until 1pm – see, I was even lying to myself about the ‘lie in until 10am’ because let’s be real, that’s hardly a lie-in – and generally be the sloths that the baby boomer generation accuse us of being?
You might have realised by now that this rant is, perhaps annoyingly, demonstrative of the very thing for which I’m both pining and whining (ha – lame rhyme, this is where my English degree truly comes to shine): the entitlement to lazy, childish and ultimately useless behaviour.
After all, don’t you hate it when you read something… with no point?
Image: Nerve Media