holy crap. so i finally was like, ok, you're 26, whatever. no big deal. go get yer drink on with your girls and just lay in bed watching roseanne, eating junkfood, see some friends, go check some shows, spend tons of cash money on crap you don't need, cool. getting older is whatever. it's not like 26 is the age to get hitched and pop out pups or grow up or anything.
or is it? it's a sad world i live in when i find out my former bff from college yeerz popped out a kid from her husband's facebook page. and other pals i was supposed to see in our sister state up yonder minnesnowta blow off my msgs when we were super tight girly friends back in the days of hs, dells, college, whatever. i get it, we grow apart. time passes, people change. blah blah blah.
but here i am, wondering if i'm the one who's super smart or the one who really will be the disgruntled cat ma'arm. i mean, husband? kids? HAHAHAHAHA. i can't even score a real date. i'm too busy reapplying lipgloss and making fun of people in my head whenever i do make it out to even notice if there are any potential contenders out there in that "real world". but is the real world really the dirty hipster bar scene? am i supposed to find my prince scumbag at a dirty sweaty rock show? doubt it. do i even really want a male friend? do i really even dream about that ideal social standard of hypocritical never never land? not. really. . .
hell, my bedroom still boasts several band posters. unframed. dirty clothes crumpled in the corner. bras hanging from doorknobs. clothing tags scattered on the floor. cattoys in my bed. lipstick smeared pillowcases. waffles for dinner. lil wayne blaring on my ipod station. lipstick without a cap on my dresser. expired cta cards. it just bewilders me when i visit old friends and see how domestic and "grown up" they've become. here, my former peers who would gleefully swig back mike's hards illegally or throw back pitchers of milwaukee's beast during powerhours, are now baby in tow. wedding bands. crate and barrel. town cars. subarus. no wonder they don't want to call me back. i'm here, 26, still throwing back the pitchers (although i have progressed up to pbr from said beast, and i'm way past the days of mikes' hard, these days it's all about the sparks/joose rage, obvs). i still dress like i'm "forever" 21. and i don't think i'll ever outgrow my love for plastic, bright jelly jewelry. i seriously will never get hitched--unless dude pops the q with a ringpop and maybe busts out a freestyle. or is christian bale. (i didn't use to find him so appealing, but dude was pretty tough in terminator).
i'm listening to the new tori amos album right now. my pal quinn bought it for me. it sounds like tori's grown up a bit too, but it's ok. tori still takes me back on a nostalgia trip back to 7th grade when i was just beginning my days as an artificial redhead (only auburn prior to age 12), angry at boys and wondering when my life was going to start kicking ass. well, it's 14 years later and the only things that have changed is that i'm now in chicago vs argyle--which i spose is an upgrade, kinda.
aga blah. ok. i was going to go check the fader open bar fiesta tonite at evil olive, but after thinking it over what would getting wasted (albeit free), really accomplish for me on this weds? i've only had one day of work all week, and i'm already spent. i think i had all the fun my lil bod can afford last night after the racaucous dance party with the yeah yeah yeahs.
at least i know i'm cool. even if i'm not responsible or a real grown up grown up. i'm ok with drinking out of juice boxes and laughing at kitties for the rest of my days. at least i've got the knowledge knowing that i get me, even if nobody else does.
with that, i conclude my ramble. it's time to switch things up to some ghostface and read me some books. . . wishing it was the wknd for division street. . .
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