I’m 24 but that doesn’t make me a monster
It is 2pm on a Sunday and I am 24 and I am being exactly the generational piece of shit I am supposed to be. Hungover, watching youthcentric cable television, some popped-yolk eggs floating in a stomach that just got back from brunch.
I bet you just got back from brunch. The lady in the dryer sheet commercial that somehow snuck in the center of a Jersey Shore rerun does not like me. She keeps her health insurance card in a smart Ann Taylor wallet. She buys her toilet paper in bulk after a long but satisfying day at work. She fluffs her lavender-scented laundry, a mountain of fitted shirts and henleys, and shakes her head at me. Heaven help me if I date her son. I am just another leech, a slug who can’t quite climb out of the suburban cocoon her parents worked so hard to keep her safe in. College degree? So WHAT, dryer lady snarks. You’re just going to make a JOINT of it before your parents give you RENT money.
Fuck, I really love this.