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.
