I’m 29, and I had a bad day yesterday. Sometimes on bad days, I want to off myself for silly reasons. Like:
1. I have to actually put in effort to care for my body.
I hit the metabolism lottery, okay? That all changed when I started taking a medicine that can make me gain a lot of weight if I’m not careful. So, oh my God, I actually have to hit the gym 6-7 days a week now, and feel anorexic until I get to my target weight. So essentially, I have to do what the majority of people I know have done for years. WAH.
2. Drinking is no longer fun.
Drinking used to be fun. Now it just makes me feel sick, depressed, and regretful. And since I’m watching my damn calories, that means no more Man-O-Manischewitz for moi.
3. I’m not having babies.
I don’t want babies. But you know, I’m getting to “that age” where “the clock is ticking,” so I’m constantly being asked about it, then am pitied by smug Moms who say having children was the best thing they ever did. I don’t care. I’m not creating a person just so I can find myself.
4. I can’t afford anything I “should” be able to afford by now.
I’m 29. Why can’t I afford a house? Why can’t I afford to travel to Ireland? Why can’t I afford to get my roots done? Why can’t I afford the hairspray I want, because my overgrown bangs keep getting in my face and my cowlick makes life freakin’ impossible? WHY. Because of debt. Stupid higher education. Who needs you?
5. Yesterday contained zero excitement, which is no different from most days.
This was my day yesterday:
Put on makeup.
Lamented my existence and the fact that no one reads my damn blog.
Went to the gym.
Hated every minute.
Read more of John Adams by David McCollough.
Wished I was as awesome as John and Abigail Adams were.
Told myself I was a pansy for only doing 20 minutes on the elliptical.
Watched a parody video of Taylor Swift’s “Feelin’ 22” called “Feelin’ 32” on BuzzFeed.
Felt somewhat better.
Checked the calories of Jameson Irish Whisky.