I am Millennial. How Millennial, you ask? I’m Millennial as fuck.
So Millennial that I refer to myself as a 90s kid without a hint of irony. So Millennial that I do occasionally (like once a week) take time out of my otherwise busy schedule to take selfies for no other purpose than to post the best one on social media. So Millennial that I have thought extensively and in great depth about which Friends character I am at heart. So Millennial that a senior staff member at Time could easily read through my tweets and write a snarky article about me. I am Millennial with a capital M.
Need further proof? Oh, okay. I got you, bae.
Here are a few things I did this week:
- Tried to order pizza at 10 AM
- Laid in bed and watched Criminal Minds for six hours straight
- Cried when my mom sent me a Valentine’s Day gift
- Moved all of the pictures on the my walls on a Wednesday night at 11 PM
- Freaked out and texted my best friend AND sister when R. Kelly liked one of my Instagram photos
Oh yeah, that’s me, in all my Millennial glory. Move over T-Swift! I just ate cheese sticks for dinner in my bathroom while I was taking off my makeup.
SO. If it’s not already painfully obvious, my grasp on adulthood is shaky, at best. I’m exceedingly terrible at completing adulty tasks, like, ya know, washing dishes and taking out trash. I don’t think I’ve made my bed since I moved into my new apartment. There are potato chips in my cabinet that are so old I could probably use them as poker currency. I have a leak in my shower that I should prooobably fix. But eh.
You know me. We’ve met. I’m a Millennial.
But here are a few other things about me. I’m smart and educated. I’ve kept two cats and a dog alive without anybody seriously harming anyone else. (It helps that all of my animals have a vested interest in sleeping for as many hours of the day as they possibly can.) I work and go to school in a PhD program. I stretch a little bit of money – and I do mean a really little bit – a long way. I recently learned how to make some pretty dope coffee.
No, I’m not so great at remembering to wash clothes. And yes, I have made an actual hobby out of seeing how long I can hit snooze before I absolutely have to get up. (It’s four times, if you’re wondering.) Still, I’m pretty proud of myself.
I know, I know. It’s weird to be proud of yourself for staying alive. Like, yeah bro. That’s the end game. It’s your biological imperative to keep yourself alive. I knoooow.
But damn, man, life’s hard! Living WELL below the poverty line is hard. Actively deciding to grocery shop and cook dinner rather than eat off the Taco Bell dollar menu every night of the week is hard. Plucking up the energy to drag my tired ass into the shower (almost) every day is hard. And health insurance and taxes and dating and vet bills and buying a car and all the other things no one tells you about adulthood. It’s all HARD. I feel like that round plate continually spinning around in the microwave, waiting for a beep.
Where’s my beep, man? DAMMIT, I NEED A BEEP.
Here I am, though, working and studying and paying bills and trying to save money. (HA!) So hell yes I’m proud of myself. I might be the quintessential white girl without my shit together, but I’m fine with that. Why? Because I’m alive. And even more than that, I’m staying alive, every single day.
All original content copyright Kimberly Turner, 2016-2016.