I don’t eat or sleep the same anymore. Two sleeping pills at bedtime every night just to get seven hours rest, yet I’m always tired, exhausted and overwhelmed. I don’t smile or laugh the same anymore, at least not here, not all the time, with him. He’ll say that all I focus on is the negatives, the things he’s done wrong, but if this was a healthy relationship there wouldn’t be all that many things to focus on. He’s never once hit me, but in rage he’s shaken me, pushed me, yelled at me with spit flying out of his mouth while I try desperately to think of something to say to calm him down and lower his voice. I’m not allowed to be angry at him for any amount of time, tears frustrate him and withholding the words “I love you” is the greatest sin of all. I’ve watched him punch holes in walls like they were made of sand, and once he threw my Mac book across the room, shattering the screen and breaking a glass that I cleaned up afterwards. I clean, I wash, I put things away and he says “Why don’t you just ask me to do it”, except that asking him means inconveniencing his time doing whatever he wants. I’m not allowed to be selfish or inconsiderate because his Dad’s dying and isn’t that all that matters? When we fight it’s because I’m “driving him insane”, or that I “just can’t let things go” never because he can’t just count to ten and walk away from me. At first I gained weight, stuffing my face everyday so that I wouldn’t feel his scorn, his never ending blame that somehow me, the almost college grad with an impressive resume, was the screwed up one in our relationship. His parents did the best that they could but mine “should have put me in counseling years ago”. Now I constantly look puffy from crying and if I do eat it never stays in my stomach. My parents worry, a month ago a midnight call from my mother was just her hysterically crying and telling me I needed to get out of here. I didn’t see it then, her watching me from the outside as I drowned in the unhappiness of it all. In his eyes we are “normal”, because “every couple in their twenties fights like this,” but I never see too many girls looking as empty as I do. It’d be easy to leave him if only I had more money, a place to stay, and the strength to just put it all behind me, but I don’t and I try, but while I try I watch myself grow further and further away from the person I used to be. There were indiscretions on both parts. For the longest time we thought we could beat the odds, he’d apologize and say “I love you” and I would think “maybe everything will be better now”, but days later we’d be at it again him screaming “fuck you Chelsea” loud enough for the neighbors to hear. His parents never stopped him, never wondered in to see if he was hitting me or just to tell him not to scream at a woman that way in the same way that they never stopped his brother from binge drinking all day and night. The dying Dad part is all that matters, everything else is a sidebar. Recently I made the decision to unfriend his father after unsavory comments he made “in jest” on Facebook about my disrespect towards him. My decision was reversed without my consent because my boyfriend “weighted the Pro’s and Con’s” and decided what I wanted wasn’t what he wanted so he re-friended him without my knowledge. Writing it down it sounds bad, I’ve become that girl that I warned others not to become. Emotionally I’m too weak to even give thought to the fact that I’ve become a Tyler Perry character in my own life, verbally and mentally abused into thinking that I’m the problem. Everyday is the same, I’m isolated and trapped- trapped?! Is all this enough to erase the happy memories of Disneyland, our cross country 4 day road trip, our week long stay in an ocean view condo in Laguna? We never fought then, but of course it was all there, just bubbling beneath the surface. The echo of his brother calling me a “condescending bitch” came to me as I scrubbed the toilet he shit in everyday and I wondered if this is what it feels like to have no soul. Everyone that knows me see’s me as someone with strength and fortitude, but oh if they really knew how weak I felt, the things I put up with on a daily basis, and for what- love? I am a feminist nightmare, didn’t my mother teach me better?! To not to let boys yell at you and make you feel bad? Excuse me while I try to remember that class in college where it teaches you how to be alone. I know I’m damaging myself, with every word he lifts and swings at me I become sicker, and I know the recovery process will keep me out of relationships for too long while I regain… everything… I’m sorry’s are the currency of this household, dished out like candy with regret, but not a lesson learned. Afterwards it’s “lets forget this every happened” but I’m still spinning from the fact that it did. And again it comes back to the Dad dying, if only I understood, if only I could comprehend the stress, then maybe I’d see how I deserved every tongue lashing I have ever endured here. They always feel as if I’m judging them, comparing themselves to how my family might act in the same situation. I want to say that my family would never let me treat another human being the way they let their son treat me but it comes across deaf ears. I want to say I don’t have time to judge them because I’m too busy judging myself, wondering if I can ever look in the mirror and be proud of who I am again. I want to say, “stop, you’re hurting me”, but I know in the end, I’m just hurting myself.
If you told me five years ago (for the record we’re talking late summer 2008 for those of you who can’t do simple math) what my life would look like now I’m pretty sure I would have to punch you in the face. If you sat me; 17 year old, fresh out of high school, Arizona State bound self down and told me that in five years I would go from a type-A , plan-A person into a 22 year old walking disaster with a vague idea as to the direction of my life I would probably just stare at you blankly and ask if I had started doing drugs. I’m not, of course, doing drugs but I would naturally assume that because why else would I not be in Grad school at 22 ?! I was that person, consistently achieving more and more (I was a Hill intern in Washington DC by 19, a white house intern by 20 ; one of the youngest who was accepted in Spring 2011) always questioning my friends as to what their plan was for life and why they weren’t reaching their full potential as they rolled their eyes at me. I had a linear plan that had me finishing undergrad with a degree in Poly Sci by twenty-one, going to Grad school to get my master in public relations by twenty-five, and then settling down with a guy that I would live with for two years before being engaged for another year and then waiting six months to a year and popping out 3 kids in the span of 8 years all the while wearing high heels and power suits and dominating the DC political world. It was an ambitious plan but I
was am an ambitious girl. So how does a girl with a plan as solid as that end up working as a front desk receptionist in a massage studio and living with her boyfriend at his parents house? Good question… Life. Life happens and linear plans turn into spontaneous curve balls and real life bills and bullshit converge making it hard pressed to get ahead. I’m not condoning my behavior, having a game plan for life is important even essential, but what i didn’t know five years ago that I know now is that plans change.
I recently had a friend call me out the way I use to call other people out when their lives were seemingly a mess. He told me that he doesn’t “like to see people I know just fucking around, not doing better like they should be.” At the time I was sitting in my other friends living room getting visible more upset by the moment. The friend I was sitting next to asked what was wrong and I told him the entire situation. He said ” Your life is only a mess if you don’t feel happy. Who cares how anyone else views you, you’re the only one living life in your shoes. Who cares if you haven’t done life in the X,Y, and Z order, as long as your doing what you need to do and your consistently growing as a person you’re doing alright.” Our generation is the first to face this problem of going out of order. People aren’t going straight to Grad school (mostly because the sticker shock of an additional 60K in debt after the initial 100k or so in undergrad feels like a trap), more and more couples are living together and skipping the ceremony, society be damned and lets not even talk about the declining birth rate in this country. The idea of linear success the way our parents and grandparents had it is a way of the past so the question becomes, how do we measure success and what determines if a person is failing at life. The phrase “hot mess” which started to dominate pop culture in the past few years (I’m looking at you Amanda Bynes) is defined by Urban Dictionary as the following:
When ones thoughts or appearance are in a state of disarray but they maintain an undeniable attractiveness or beauty.
While I would like to think of my current situation as a standard detour I will readily admit to you faceless blog readers that the truth is, I’m a little lost. More than I feel that my life is in a “state of disarray” I feel a never ending anxiety that I’m somehow not doing what I’m suppose to be doing at my age and I don’t feel alone. Even twenty-somethings with life fully grabbed by the horns have the fleeting thought they they should “Get their life together” in some aspect. The answer is, of course, that short of fifty no one expects you to have everything in your life together all at once. It comes in stages. Maybe you have the career you want but your love life is shit, or you have the best girlfriend in the world but youre seriously lacking on the meaningful friendships aspect. There are all these false expectations that at some point in your twenties it all just clicks and your life is just, together when in reality I think its far from that. All I can say is today was a wake up call that there are some serious things in my life that I need to get together, but then again I think everyone could.
There are three very obvious things I can tell you right off the bat about the new Netflix original series Orange is the New Black, but the only one that really matters is that Netflix is playing with the big boys now and it’s AWESOME. Coming off the heels of the breakout hit House of Cards (nominated for 9, that’s right, NINE Emmy’s) and the hugely anticipated fourth season of Arrested Development everyone is saying that the way in which we, the audience, view quality original programming has officially changed and Netflix is the new usher. HIZAH!
It’s basically Weeds if Nancy Botwin had gone to prison, and you can thank co-creator and former EP of Weeds, Jenji Kohan for that one. Some might say that’s over simplifying the character but in my opinion (and remember, this is my blog so really my opinion is the only one that matters) they are one in the same. It’s the classic story of a middle-class, white women who has to make the best out of a shitty situation, and because she’s surrounded by minorities, crimes, drugs, and the like hilarity & drama ensues. It’s loosely based off of the true life events of Piper Kerman and her subsequent book detailing her experience in a women prison because of some lesbian drug smuggling yada, yada, yada, Nancy Botwin.
What I Loved…
First off, mad props to Netflix for airing an entire season all at once. Just when I thought procrastination couldn’t get any worse ( I’m looking at you Candy Crush) here comes another awesome, hour long dramedy that I could sink my teeth into, AMAHZING. The best part of this prison nightmare is the intricate stories woven into the plot lines about how each character got thrown in jail that really had me. Add to that the subtle nod to the faultiness of our current correctional system and you have the main gems that is this show. Where it differs from Weeds, and why I think it’s a better show all around is it’s treatment of it’s characters. Weeds was notorious for making us hate all of its characters with very little room for sympathy. We never felt bad for Nancy and her crew because they were flawed humans with not a single thread of human decency. We didn’t feel bad when Nancy’s shenanigans left her high and dry, in fact it took all of my strength not to constantly yell “You dumb bitch,” at the television every time I watched the show (for the record I was a fan for most of the seasons but dipped out on the last season because it was almost too ridiculous). With Orange you never feel as if the characters had any other avenues open to them to have a normal life, whereas Nancy was always traveling head first further and further down the rabbit hole that is dealing drugs. With every flash back you feel more compassion and sympathy towards these jail birds, they didn’t purposefully decide to take the road less traveled, rather they were pushed and you’re forced to reserve your judgement on the how, why, and what. To add to that, I would say that this may be one of the first hour-long drama’s that actually allows its minority characters to have rich, complex story lines and back stories. This show could have easily stepped over the line into stereotypes and generalizations without giving nuance to any of the characters but instead it’s thoughtful and reflective outlook on lesbians, African-American, Hispanics, Christians, and Russians make it a show much more fitting for the 21st century.
What I hated…
Anything and everything that has to do with the lead character. She is not endearing, funny, nor dramatic enough to really pull my attention for longer than ten minutes. In fact, not to spoil it or anything, her love triangle between her fiance and in-jail lesbian lover is so boring I would fast forward through their scenes just to get back to the side characters story-lines. I can’t decide if it’s the casting or if it’s just that boring.. . I don’t know but I feel like there is general room for improvement in the second season… maybe.. I mean I’m not a huge fan of Jason Biggs and Laura Prepon in any capacity so maybe that’s it. Taylor Schilling, previously of Mercy, where she played an Iraq war Veteran nurse in yet ANOTHER love triangle, is adequate in this role but not substantive. Do I think they could improve on her story line past her love life, yes. Do I think her story lines will ever be as interesting and layered as her co-stars are, no, but I’ll keep watching anyways.
I mean, who doesn’t love a soapy prison drama with lots of lesbian love scenes and enough racial tension to fill a stadium. It’s not as dry or witty as its Weeds counter part but it is funny and at times chilling to watch what these women go through when forced to accept a life behind bars. Plus with an already confirmed second season you won’t be getting too invested without knowing if they’ll be some closure for your favorite characters down the road. Besides, Candy Crush can only go on so long and the second season of House of Cards feels like it’s
never coming the fuck back too far away.
“My mama said life would be so hard
Growin up days as a black girl scarred
In so many ways though we’ve come so far
They just know the name they don’t know the pain
So please hold your heads up high
Don’t be ashamed of yourself know I
Will carry it forth til the day I die
They just know the name they don’t know the pain black girl…”
I first wanted to write this post after having a day out with one of my good friends Tiffany. We met about two years ago through work and mutual friends and I thought that I found a kindred spirit, another black girl from Northern California figuring out her life in her twenties here in the desert. We aren’t best friends, though easily could be, but we catch up from time to time when we really need it, telling each other the secrets and shame of whatever happenings are going on in our life over a bottle of wine and usually food.
I will say this, I don’t have many black girl friends, shit- I barely have any girl friends period so my relationship with Tiff is special. While we caught up, over tears she told me her struggles and hardships since the last time we spoke. Romantically, academically, professionally, spiritually I witnessed her breaking down the way I had over and over again in the past few weeks. I felt her pain, but not only as a fellow girl roughing it through her twenties, but as a black girl who understood the pressure you feel and corners you’re backed into.
This, of course, is all tied into the Trayvon Martin verdict from this past weekend. I’m not one to usually preach on what it feels like to be “black” because I feel like I have no authority to speak on behalf of any race let alone the black community; also, I know that my experience as black girl may or may not reflect anyone else’s experience, but today I’m going to attempt to shed some light on “black girl pain”.
Black girls are always at a disadvantage. Are you going to date black guys exclusively or branch out? If you date outside your race will they understand why you can’t get your hair wet? Will white guys even find you attractive or give you the ole stand by “I’ve never been with a black girl before” as if you’re some kind of alien? Rarely do our Caucasian counterparts have to think about this. How can you even navigate something so complex when dating in your twenties is already filled with “will they or won’t they text me back”? If you date black guys how can you find someone of quality and substance when their’s statistics like this? Sure more black men are enrolling in college than jail now and that’s a good upwards trend but 15% less black men graduate than black women. That may not seem like a lot but if these rates remain steady the disproportion of educated black men to women is going to make it hard for black women to find their equal.
Luckily for us their’s no pictures required in resumes. I’ve never not been hired because I was black, those are things of the past (or at least I like to think so) but being a black girl means working harder, being faster, and handling things with ease and class or else you’re just playing into the “angry black girl” stereotype. I can’t tell you how many interviews involve a manager just looking at me and commenting on how “articulate” and “well spoken” I seem. This is nothing new to be asserted but I feel like should be reiterated when talking about black women in their twenties who usually have customer service jobs and thus this encounter happens on the hour. With every table you greet or customer you check in you’re looked at in the same way over and over again.
Ditto with everything I said above except with classes and teachers instead of customers and bosses. If you’re lucky your campus has an expansive black greek culture or the like on campus, which has it’s pros & cons (stay tuned for a post on why I didn’t chose to go to an HBCU and why I think it can actually harm the new generation of black young people ).
Family & Spirituality
Figuring out the two above things is hard for anyone but for black girls it’s ten times harder. The truth is with family a lot of us in our twenties are trying to set ourselves up with what we didn’t have in our own families. If we grew up in a single mom household how do we make it work with a two parent home? If we grew up in a strict two parent home how do we start to create a more inviting, less strict environment for our own children? Ditto with spirituality. A lot of us grew up in church but is that going to be how we continue our lives? Do we really believe in the principles or the black church or do we want to branch out, explore other religions and teachings? If we do will other black people look down on us? Will other religions be accepting of our color and heritage? More questions than I’ll bet most white women consider. but then again I wouldn’t know…
When I was done having a great, albeit adventurous day with Tiff I played the song by Talib Kweli called Black Girl Pain, a song he wrote for his daughter outlining all the reasons she should be proud to be a black girl. With all that the remarks that President Obama made yesterday in the wake of Trayvon Martin I think it is the time to have some more open dialog about what it’s like in the black community instead of just just trying to change it. Maybe if more people knew or could read what our experiences are really like they could better understand where the pain and hurt comes from.
For Tiffany and I, I think of the last lines of the song:
“Black girls, raise up your hands; the world should clap for us.”
On my second date with my now boyfriend he told me he was an addict. It was a straight forward conversation where, now, almost two years later he admits to me that it was the most scared he had ever been. I was naturally inquisitive but gentle, knowing that no matter what my world had changed just by this admission. Like I said, that was two years ago, and I won’t get into the juicy details of his indiscretions because this post is not about him, rather his equally addicted older brother that we now live with. Maybe this was kismet that I learn first hand how living with an addict feels like, the consistent disappointment when you smell liquor on their breathe, the endless frustration with trying to help and running out of options, the feeling you have when anything important goes missing; even though you don’t want to believe it, 90% of the time they’ve taken it.
Michael from every story I had heard previous to meeting him had everything going for him. The 2nd born in a pack of 4 brothers he was the most like my boyfriends mother and had absorbed her infinite love of cooking and being in the kitchen. At 17 he dropped out of high school to pursue cooking full time and with a lot of hard work and effort he received his GED and went on to culinary school. Afterwards he started working his way up in some of the Valleys best restaurants. At 26 he had a son who was the spitting image of him and his dedication to providing for his new family fueled him even harder. But after a while his girlfriend left him, taking the baby with her. I’m skipping some details here but all you need to know is a few DUI’s and some jail time later Michael found himself at the bottom working his way back up. When I met him he was unemployed living in a run down apartment complex in South Scottsdale. We would pick him up for the weekend when his son would come over to visit and then drop him back off accordingly. My boyfriends parents, having already dealt with my boyfriends addiction now had less energy and the disease that my boyfriends father had just been diagnosed with, ALS, had started taking it’s toll. After being evicted the choice was obvious, Michael would have to come live with us.
At first, when Michael came to live with us in my boyfriends ailing parents house I was for it, happy that under the watchful eye of the 4 (at the time 5 of us) we could make sure he wasn’t just drinking all night and sleeping all day, it was fool proof. And that’s when I learned my first thing about addicts; you could have a team of 10 people watching them but if they want to drink or do drugs they will. Michael was no exception. While everyone was sleeping he would drink bottles of malt liquor and cheap vodka passing out at various times in the day even with someone sitting right next to him. As the holidays crept upon us his drinking got worse, not better and his parents had, had enough.
Flash forward to the New Year. Michael voluntarily stepped up and went to a rehab facility in South Dakota where my boyfriends parents have some family. There was no intervention, just a stipulation that he had to detox and stay for the full amount of time (30 days) and then they would buy him a ticket home so he could find work and move out. He was anxious, scared even, and my boyfriends mother worried that he might make a last ditch attempt not to go. So my boyfriend offered to take him and we all heaped praise and pride upon him that he was taking the steps necessary to get his life right.
That was in January, and in February he returned looking better. The visible liver spots and bruises had disappeared and his skin, which had been yellow and pale had lifted. It was the first time I really met Michael, or at least a version of him as a recovering alcoholic instead of a active alcoholic. He found a job in the ritzy part of North Scottsdale as a line cook and seemingly liked it. He was even sleeping in his own bed (as opposed to the floor) and seemed withdrawn but better. But this was real life, not the show Intervention and Michael’s sordid past started to catch up with him. He was let go from his job at Scottsdale Quarter due to a mishap he had at one of their sister restaurants. So the drinking started again.
For those who don’t know much about addiction or relapse let me explain that, for the most part, relapse is normal. For those who don’t attend meetings, seek professional help, or have sober living homes and support it is almost inevitable. Michael was no exception. Yet, it was different, instead of openly passing out on the floor we’d find missing beer bottles, watered down alcohol, and cigarettes. But our suspicions stayed just that and when Michael was hired on at a second job, this time closer to home and a lot less intimidating, we were hopeful. Yet, the subtle drinking continued and a few weeks later that job was gone too. So Michael tried again, maybe because he was mostly sober or maybe because he just wanted to give it one last go, but he did, getting hired at a local neighborhood hotspot that was just down the road. Because he had no car, and couldn’t drive himself due to having a suspended license my boyfriends mother would drop him off every afternoon and my boyfriend and I would alternate between picking him up. This went on for 9 weeks without incident, a new all time high for him while living with us. He was saving money, looking great, and we even supported him having a beer or two on the weekends to show how far he’d come. But then excuses after excuses started to accumulate. “The busy’s seasons over they called me off work”, changed to “I was suspended with pay”, and then to “I was suspended”, and finally what we’d been dreading to hear “I was fired”. This coupled with my boyfriends father disease turning a huge corner for the worst angered me. How could he succumb to his addiction when there were literally people dying right underneath him?! How could someone with so much love and support from their family disregard our faith and him and let the alcohol win? How could he let all our hopes for him just fly away when he had so much to live for?! Why would he do that to his parents, his brothers, his son? Why was he wasting space if he just wanted to kill himself anyway?
It’s been 6 weeks since I first started having those feeling and I wish I could say that things have started to get better. Michael still has no job and doesn’t look as if he’s looking for one. For me, life living with an addict has brought all the range of emotions that most family members go through. I won’t lie, sometimes I feel nothing but contempt and disgust for him when in my heart I know that he’s just as sick as someone with cancer. It’s treatable, even curable, but sometimes it’s not. When I read the news of Cory Monteith’s death, even after his stint in rehab I felt the pain his family must have felt. The sadness, and the blame,the guilt and shame, but even some of the relief that people feel when surrounded by addicts because even though they are gone the constant worry you have is already been met. The emotion that I think is most prevalent is the one of hopelessness and despair when you realize that you can’t fix them, only they can fix them… or they could die, it’s their choice.
So I’ve crossed a big milestone here blog readers– I’ve got 10 followers! Whooohooo! This may not be something worth noting to most of you but for the fact that even one person wants to read anything I have to say is incredible. I mean we all know it– blogs are just online diaries for narcissist with sometimes helpful or colorful commentary that normal people may or may not find interesting and thus read. Whatever, I’ll take it! But upon reaching this obvious trivial yet exciting achievement i decided I need to come up with some sort of vision, a mission statement if you will of why people should read my blog in the first place. Below is just a small list of reasons you may want to check me out if you haven’t already. (I swear not every other blog post will be list)!
1. It’s not long. My post on average should take you less time to read than Ikea directions.
2.I most DEFINETLY will write a post on how to survive assembling something from Ikea within the next few weeks.That should be reason to read enough.
3. I’m not licensed to give advice about your body. That means no preachy “How to Gluten Free Your Diet” or ” Better Ways To Improve Your Abs”. What do I look like, a gym teacher? I’ll tell you what works for me, sporadically going to the gym but mostly sitting on the couch binge watching True Blood.
4. I will sometimes write reviews that don’t include words like “cinematic masterpiece”. I watch a lot of TVs and Movies and I know how helpful it is to just cut to the chase with a lot of these things. Just because we’re in our twenties doesn’t mean we have to be unrefined.
5. It’s real life. Everything I write about is the honest to God truth. Not that other peoples blogs are fake but
most some of them are just about cool recipes they tried and blah blah blah. Like no, most of our cakes aren’t Pinterest quality, just stop.
6. I’m going through shit. In the same vein as “this is real life” I’m currently hating my twenties. This is not a reflective blog where I’m 29 talking down to all you suckers as you wade through the “dark” years. I’m in the mud too– in fact I’m covered.
7. I’m hilarious. Obviously.
8. It’s not going to be girly grumbling all the time. Preseason count down in t-minus 26 days.
9. Do I really need to convince you anymore?!
Follow ME!!! xoxo’s
Good morning blog readers, hope everyone had a safe and happy fourth of July, I know I did. I complain a lot about the pit falls of being in your twenties but it’s hard to argue the benefits when it comes to fun national holidays like the 4th of July (Halloween, however, is a different story but I digress)! Since this blog is supposed to be an open outlet for me to
grip vent voice a popular opinion I’m going to use only my third post to talk about one of the most sucky things about being in your twenties and that’s living with your parents. No other generation before us has ever faced an economy and job market quiet like ours. It’s a plethora of catch 22’s and unfortunate circumstances that leads us to bunk up in our childhood bedrooms long after our expiration date. If I made a visual of how this exactly transpires it would look something like this:
Can’t move out until —-> good credit
Can’t get good credit until —–> you have a credit card
Can’t get a credit card until —-> you prove financial independence
Can’t prove you’re financial independent until —–> you move out
… and thus it starts all over again in a frustrating circle until you give up and except that you’re going to have to live with your parents for the rest of you life. God Damnit! There are other factors too, of course. I mean you have to have a stable job with some sort of livable income and last time I checked an undergraduate degree qualifies you for exactly nothing but cost an arm and a leg. Welcome to $11 dollars an hour and waitressing until that “perfect” job comes around and/or you finish grad school at
I mean there are plenty of perks to it, don’t get me wrong, the most obvious being that you probably don’t have to pay rent. And believe you me, I’m grateful that parents let us live with them so that the homeless population doesn’t triple. Plus, now I can spend my barely there paycheck on things like
therapy other bills. Sometimes this even includes free meals and obviously free fully furnished living but lets face it, no one dreams of living with their parents during the “prime” when they could be, you know, doing whatever the f&%! they want. Yet, parents look at this time in life as if you’ve somehow managed to do this on purpose to thwart them. I’m pretty sure they’ve bumped their heads because every kid from the age of fourteen on dreams of one day being free of these mini dictators, but no instead our plan this whole time was to mooch off you forever so you can tell us how loud we can have the TV. You figured us out, thanks economy.
So how do we, as grown man/women children get it together and move out? Well if I had the answer to that I wouldn’t be living in parents house now would I? For now I’ll just stare out an open window and dream of a day when I can leave dishes in the sink for more than two hours. Happy hunting.