Watching “Steven Universe” and “Vanderpump Rules” on my Ikea couch that easily turns into a double bed,  I “accidentally” let the neighbor’s cat in the house again and she’s not mad about the head scratches.  Got my favorite robe on, fuzzy socks on my feet, and a glass of rose in my hand.  My laptop is open to the various forms I have to fill out, print off, mail, and punch my bank info into, so I can get my nursing license transferred to California  in time for the move.  It’s a fucking drag, but at least I’m comfy.

This is a pretty dream adult life so far.  I get to get my busy shit done while I get a little toasted with some TV on the side, then I’ll go to bed listening to a podcast where someone tells me a story.  I could be a little more organized, sure, but my bills get paid and I’m not living off mac’n’cheese and Oreos (not for lack of trying).  I honestly don’t get where this “adulting” accomplishment bullshit came from.  When did doing laundry and paying bills and grocery shopping suddenly became more anxiety producing than going to an actual job.  When I hear the word “adulting” I hear “mildly annoying life stuff getting blown out of proportion”.

I’ll say it myself, I can get a little internally misanthropic about my Millennial status.  There are pros and cons of every generation and I tend to be critical.   Whatever.  However, for some reason my generation has taken to doing life stuff, (keeping a clean house and answering e-mails) like self inflicted chore torture that deserves a prize at the end.  Have the fucking glass of wine whether you mopped your damn kitchen or not.  I don’t need to see your ripped off Instagram meme about it.  I love being melodramatic but this is BORING.

Procrastination in my middle name, folding laundry sucks, I can’t hear my music when my vacuum’s running, and I wish I could eat Chinese food every night.  But when I look up and my bills are late, I can’t find my favorite top, my house is fucked and I’m bloated until the next election, I’ll have no one to blame but myself.  And that is worse than stubbing your toe and knowing that you are literally emotionally enraged with a chair leg.

I get it.  We’re a generation of new adults entering a workforce with seemingly useless degrees and debt up to our ears at the same age our parents were birthing us and buying houses.  Cool.  Who gives a fuck.  My parents got married at 23 and bought my childhood home at 26.  Think about the guy you were dating at 23…husband material or no? And as far as buying a house, do you live in a place where you want to be locked in like that?  News flash:  Our parents had no idea what they were doing either.  No one does.  Just because we’re not hitting the same giant “milestones” doesn’t mean we’re not qualified to complete a mundane “to-do” list.  It doesn’t make us less “adult”.

And since the fuck when did we hold to convention anyway?  We’re the generation that made it possible for people to out make the rest of us by being really, really, really, ridiculously good looking (and using FaceTune) on Instagram.

I like having a clean house, I like my closet organized, and I like being able to cook a dinner from what’s in my fridge. I like watching “Steven Universe” and seeing what shimmery nail polish looks like with a matte top coat.  Sometimes I won’t put on pants all day, but there won’t be any dishes in my sink.  And even if there are, I’m having some ice cream and champagne anyway.

Stay fabulous.  Stay weird.