So I recently turned the ripe age of 23. While most people will tell you adulthood begins at either 18 or 21, they are sadly mistaken, 23 is the age of adulthood. 21 is the last age of your youth, and the year you spend being 22 is the transition year.
So this is adulthood now, I’m no longer getting older, now I’m getting old.
The thing is since I turned 23 my life has changed dramatically. While I’m still easily annoyed by an endless amount of parasites that plague our world, maybe more now than before, but I’ve lost the will to verbally assault these imbeciles. I no longer possess the answers that I would have previously, to the question; “What shall we do about these fucks?”
And while I’m currently suffering from Fresher’s Flu, a bad back (which might be a sign of getting old, already) and a lack of funding from my loan company, I’m still unable to channel my anger and frustration into writing anything of worth.
Blogging is a young man’s game like finger fucking slags behind bike sheds and my fingers don’t smell like pube-less vagina ... it you get my drift.
So as the future looks the bleakest since the last attempted to hang myself I have released that this is life. It’s just bleak, morbid and pointless. Now when I look back at adults telling me that my youth would be the best time of my life I no longer think of them as fucking losers that never achieved anything themselves, I see them as prophets of reality, I should have taken heed to what they were saying and enjoyed my youth a little more.
While my previous life plan involved plenty of great achievements for me I’m starting to think more realistically. Whereas before I was pinning my hopes on writing for TV shows, now I’ll settle with picking up rubbish for the council at 5.00am in the morning after a busy night enjoyed by young people that have yet to realise that no matter what they do they’re worthless. Just specks on faecal matter on the toilet bowl of the world.
