Thoughts of a Twenty-Something-Year-Old

When I was eleven, I always thought that when I became twenty, I will have had a high-paying, stable job, a boyfriend, a substantial amount of money in the bank, and a particular degree of certainty in my life. Now that I'm almost twenty-two, I look at my life at a safe distance and realize these things: 1) I don't have a relatively high-paying job, which is fortunately stable at least; 2) I'm still frustratingly single; 3) I'm broke, and 4) I'm unsure, insecure, and pathetically lethargic. 

Being over twenty is sitting on a fence between two space-time continuums. On one side, there's the hissy teenager I've left behind a long time ago; and on the other, the responsible adult I'm still not ready to become.  So where exactly am I? 

I'll tell you.

I am sitting on a swivel chair made specifically to gradually deteriorate all the structures of my spine, which will eventually lead to early osteoporosis. I am rapping on a dusty keyboard, writing things about motor turbines and energy rating systems and heat transfer. I try to drink a different brand of instant coffee every morning to try to convince myself that every day is different. I censure my own lack of motivation because I know that I'm lucky to even have a job when so many others don't—even if it's not the one I imagined I'd be having right now.

That's the thing about being a twenty-something-year-old. There are so many places to go, so many things to do, so many people to meet that we ironically end up in a slump . We settle for the hackneyed process we undergo every day, and we tolerate the mediocrity we once despised. We are at that time where we could be anywhere we want to be and do whatever the hell we want to do, and yet here we are—in a poorly insulated office, staring at a blinking cursor and making up excsuses for being unproductive.

I know a lot of people expected great things from me when I graduated. Believe me, I did too. But all I can really do is just have faith that the day will come when the person my eleven-year-old self imagined will somehow grow out of the impulsive, prone to platitudes, lazy mess that I am right now. After all, I can't rush greatness. Whether I'm just conceited or it really is meant to be, I know something big waits for me out there. I mean, God didn't make me acutely aware and smart to make Powerpoints forever, right? Right. 

So I better stick to his plan and just live without overthinking the concept of living. What did Miguel say to me again when I left Xlibris? He said life is a cheating bastard, and I have to beat it at its own game. So life, you have met your bitch.