So, I guess these existential crisis are going to be a recurring phenomenon. It seems like I’m having one every two weeks, conveniently preceding pay day. Wouldn’t you fucking know it, they end about two hours after my paycheck clears the bank. I’m pretty sure it’s me being my typical, dramatic self but sometimes i can’t help but assume that the reason they are recurring is because I’m on the cusp of some sort of change and I’m not doing enough to facilitate it. I hate to get fake deep but I seriously wish I knew what I could do to work this shit out. Clearly, it’s not enough to be receptive and ready for the change, I have to figure out what the hell this “change” is. It’s really hard to walk around as the angsty 27 year old with a chip on his shoulder because he’s always in this meta-mental state of crisis but, shit, that is my ministry at this point. I don’t know. Maybe I just need a burrito.
Kids. The catalyst of many conversations when you’re 27 years old and don’t have or want any. I tell you, those little shits can make anything uncomfortable well beyond being a figment of anyone’s imagination. Let’s slow down a little, I don’t have an aversion to kids, per se. I just like things a specific way. I also like things hectic and chaotic. I enjoy wine whenever I want to. When sleep comes, I let her ravish me as long as she’d like without interruption. I completely understand that people with children also enjoy these small luxuries. I also understand that children bring out a side of you that you never thought existed. A different kind of love you never thought you’d know. Fine and dandy. That’s just not my shot of whiskey. Generationally speaking, I’m not alone in this never-ending explanation of why kids aren’t my “thing”. It’s a topic that has awkwardly plagued many colleagues and peers of mine at family functions and outings with parent friends. It’s an issue that we’ve been, by proxy, unable to answer because our true answers are 1.) not good enough and/or 2.) rude to the one doing the questioning. For anyone with a normal self esteem, any one of these two effects to answering kid questions is daunting.
A lot of my reasoning for remaining kidless definitely stems from observing people with kids. Although most of them are very happy with their bundles of joy I can’t help but see how lax they become with their own hopes and dreams. How easy it is to just give up on you for the sake of the little ones. This is in no way me being judgemental. I just know, personally, that I have enough shit happening daily that keeps me from living in my dreams without kids. It seems really easy to let the little ones inadvertently take the blame for not being where you want to be in life. I can’t see myself giving up my selfish ways of spending all of my time on me and who/where I want to be in the near and distant future. One thing I’ve felt bad about saying until recently is that I feel sorry for people who had kids before their 21st birthday. At 27 I feel that those years were some of the most valuable years of my life. I made so many mistakes, learned so many lessons, and experienced the world in a different way than ever before. I’m thankful that those years, for me, weren’t lost to parenthood. Now, I’m thankful that I get to live as a young adult with a career learning, growing, making mistakes, and experiencing without having to worry about another mouth to feed (besides my animal).
To my peers, and the people younger than me, with children speak honestly with me. Do you feel you compromised some of the best years of your life for your little bundles of snot and sunshine? Do you wish you could redo it? This is a no judgement zone. Cross that line and I will come for that ass so please speak freely and without judgements. I’d love to hear opinions.
While perusing Facebook before bed, like any good millennial, I came across the picture below. (Please notice, I left the watermark of whoever came up with thi ls shit. I don’t want the credit at all.)
“Could you do this?!” the post asks. Could I do it?! I would do this shit for a year’s supply of Chipotle. I would kick this bet’s ass for three month’s worth of Lime-A-Rita’s and Slim Jims. Are you fucking kidding me? I’d willfully untether myself from the bullshit that phones, social media, and the Internet at large propagate. Without any real statistical knowledge, I think it’s safe to say that 75% percent of the “people” I interact with on a daily basis I wouldn’t be caught dead with in real life. This is whether I know them or not. Another 10% of that I don’t know and will probably never meet, namely because I don’t care to. I’d pay $3 million to go three months without being reachable. I’d love to say that I’ve only come in contact with people because honest efforts were made.
Call me misanthropic, but I think that’s what’s gone awry with society and specifically my generation and the one after. At this point, it’s cliched but we really spend little time interacting with each other on a face to face level and I do feel it’s somehow disconnecting us with reality. We are all living in this metaphysical bubble of 140 characters and memes. It’s so scary, it’s funny. I am not without flaws and anytime I come up with something witty I all but shit myself trying to get it on Facebook. I, too, am the problem.
At any rate, I think it’s important for our own sanity to detach ourselves every now and then. I know it’s hard to deal with people face to face but if it’s a choice, it shouldn’t be a punishment. I think.
Last night was super spiritual.
I watched Scandal, I poured a glass of wine, and I took a shower. Then, after said shower, I stood in front of a mirror. Sans clothing. Sans a towel. Sans everything I thought I loved and defined me. I stood there in all of my 27 year old glory and admired the work that I’d done. I reveled in my tattoos; from the ones with stories to the ones where I can barely remember what I drank that night. I bathed in the ambiance of the muscle tone that I’d built on dedicating myself to the gym sometimes. I thanked the universe for every grey hair. I breathed a sigh of relief that my stomach protrudes nothing. I relinquished my feelings of old age to feelings of coming of age. My age. I’m 27. I’ve been granted that many years to do something. To be something. I think I’ve spent them well.
It doesn’t mean a damn thing, though, without my mother. My lighthouse. The one person who, amongst all my extra shit, stood in the front row and cheered me on. I was her first. She’ll tell you she made plenty of mistakes with me but I can only name one; my little brother. She gave me, literally handed me, the confidence to be me. She unadulterated her love for her children so that we could be fearless in this world. She filled us with the best morals and music the world could offer and, when the time came, made us leave. She made us, me, experience the world. She traveled with us and gave us a sense of gratitude for what others may not’ve had. She didn’t mold me. She flourished me. I fear having children of my own because I know I’ll never be half the parent she was.
There were rough times but we forgave each other. She taught me that. She taught me to love without boundary. She taught me to see without limit. She gave me the confidence to be the man of someone’s dreams. She gave me the confidence to be a man.
Last night wasn’t a celebration of me and my birthday. It was an appreciation of the journey my mother started on this night, 27 years ago, that led to the following morning of her taking on a life. Taking on a life and nourishing it in every possible way. All that I was, all that I am, and all that I’ll ever be is because of her, my mama. I couldn’t be more blessed and comforted in knowing that at 27 years old, I am a product of her.
I woke up this morning and did what every average millennial does within the first 30 seconds of their angry rebirth; I checked my social status on my iPhone. One of the first notifications I saw was that I and 57 others are supposed to be “occupying” something in Washington Square Park. First, well… Second angry thought of the morning was “I’m not occupying shit!”
I don’t know how I’m always voluntold, via my damn phone, to be a political falcon of some bullshit, pretentious, entitled pep rally of a sinking generation. Listen, I am a part of this generation. At 27 years old, I understand the struggles of college tuition and that bum bitch Sallie Mae. I know all about the baby boomers crawling out of retirement to swallow up all of the entry-level positions that our starry eyes were set on. I get the struggle to want to be where you’d always thought you’d be at this age and not being anywhere close. But come the fuck on. If you have time to rally against minimum wage instead of working to get out of it, minimum wage might be all you deserve. Maybe my crassness for this subject is harsh but we are supposed to be the generation of creativity and ingenuity. Why aren’t we more entrepreneurial in our approach to enter the working market? Why does our generation lack the heart and balls that it takes to try and fail a few times and gain the experience?
I’m not sitting here telling you that I’m a pillar for our millennial standing. It’s a tough world out there, made even tougher by the pressures to succeed as our parents did. We all have goals and dreams, I don’t doubt that. I’m really tired of seeing, however, the bulk of our young society attempt to place those goals and dreams on the backs of others. We aren’t owed shit. There’s a newsflash I’m tired of hearing but it’s true. Fewer of us are starting families, giving up the excuse of caring for the home. Most of us have some sort of college level experience and the savvy to translate that knowledge into the private sector. The problem is that a lot of us are afraid of a little elbow grease. We’ve had it pretty easy up to this point and now we’re stuck. We want to jump immediately into the market of our interest but don’t want to get dirty and take risks.
We’re young. We’re resilient. We still have an element of fearlessness that can work to our favor. So instead of causing a political uprising via my fucking facebook, why don’t we try throwing caution to the wind. If you hate your current situation, Charlo Greene that shit. Come up with your plan and then put it into action. Prepare for hurdles but don’t fear them. Brave the cold, for summer always comes. Find your passion and put pressure on that shit! Coals to diamonds baby!
In exactly one month, I will be turning 27. Like, 30 minus 3, which means I’m basically 30. Which is pretty much 35 which is so close to 40, you may as well round up. What. The. Fuck.
As I approach mortality, I mean 30, I’ve began to get this numbing feeling that I’ve done absolutely shit with my life. There’s no satisfaction in just having a job and not living at home. It’s so much deeper, for some insignificant reason. Remember when you were asked “where do you see yourself in 10 years”? Yeah, I’m at that 10 year mark and, believe me, I’m light years away from where I thought I’d be. And in the wrong direction, let me tell it.
I really thought I’d be a lawyer with a family and a picket fence and shit. Life, though… Life has a sense of humor leaps and bounds above that of my own petty, humanoid shit. I’ve been allowed to live long enough to be able to lament about this shit so I guess I should be thankful, but still. I skipped over the family and picket fence part and went straight into bills, taxes, hating my job… You know, the rat race. Never really enjoyed relationships or friendships with geographically close people for very long. Now that I’m fast approaching 27, I want to try and recapture all these nuances before it’s too late and I’m too old and surly. How do you even meet people anymore once you leave college, though? Is the internet the only place I can meet like minded individuals?
I say all that to say this… I DONT WANNA GROW UP!!!
With all that’s happening in the news about corporal punishment, my soul felt a need to speak on it.
I got my ass whooped. It got tore out the frame at times. You know why? Because I fucking needed it, that’s why. My mother, a single one of three boys, spared no rod in our household. Our punishment was a 6 foot belt by the name of Fred. If my mother wasn’t deploying Fred, my grampa had The Board of Education. Between Fred and The Board, I feared acting an ass around these two people.
I don’t resent my mom or grandfather for those timely ass whippings. They literally gathered my scruples and forced me to get my shit together. In ever ass whoopin there was a lesson. There was never an intention of rogue abuse, hate, or malice. They were simply punishing me for the dumb shit I did, and I thank them. If not for corporal punishment, my black ass would probably be in court right now, pleading “affluenza” for driving drunk or stealing weed papers from 7-11. Because these people cared enough to instill values and beliefs of an upstanding citizen, I’ve grown to become one.
My peers got it as well. We discussed our ass whoopins. We laughed about them. But, the lesson was learned and we never reverted back to those indecent behaviors that warranted them. This was for fear of the punishment, not the enforcer.
My youngest brother is 13 and he doesn’t get it nearly as much as my 23 year old brother and I got it and the difference in behaviors is astounding. We were self sufficient and reliant. We knew right from wrong, whether we acted like it or not. We didn’t fear the world because of this. Now, children are cloaked with a sense of protection and entitlement because apparently it’s ok for the outside world to monitor what goes on in our personal four walls. Ass whippings aren’t illegal, they’re integral.
I like to keep my posts short, so I won’t say too much more, but the necessity to instill fear of repercussion for our action has become a thing of the past. Take that away from parents and be prepared to watch the world burn at the hands of one of these miscreants.
That is all.