Hey, what if we did a tour with Maroon 5? That would be cool. The MarGOOn 5 Concert Series… something like that. We could take turns headlining each night. I bet Adam would be up for that.
I think the reason why twentysomethings are so fixated on age is because we feel a pressure to be a certain way at 23, at 25, at 29. There are all of these invisible deadlines with our careers and with love and drinking and drugs. I can’t do coke at 25. I need to be in a LTR at 27. I can’t vomit from drinking at 26. I just can’t!
If you’ve reached this article, it’s because you are a non-superhero female character in a graphic novel and you’re searching for what you’re supposed to do now. Before you popped up in this graphic novel as the reluctant sidekick to the tough-yet-emotionally-broken male protagonist, you most likely had your own life.
Traveling with family at a young age, I wasn’t able to really take in my surroundings. My mother and sister were often gripped with anxiety while my father tried to hold down the fort. In the midst of all this, I sought silence; I liked to watch the planes come in. It wasn’t until later, once I began to travel alone, that I turned my attention to those anonymous faces I’d probably never see again and began to notice patterns.
My friend and I began drinking heavily before the game started, which makes this difficult to remember. I remember the microphone didn’t work for the national anthem, but the stadium was small enough that the woman could just yell it and we could all hear it fine.
This year, a dismissive and slightly apologetic shrug at that problem hasn’t sufficed for any of my or others’ purposes. Emails asking, “What’s next?” accumulate in my inbox and remain unanswered. I can’t bring myself to respond to affable requests for guidance.
I embraced 90s alterna-girl angst at a very early age—it was my 10th birthday and amongst the gifts (Goosebumps books, Derwent pencils, those funny cardboard trees that grew psychedelic chemical leaves when you set them in the special solution), there was No Doubt’s “Just A Girl” CD single…
I am the quiet one in the crowd with an approving nod and a warm chuckle, the one who just smiles at whatever you say. Looking spineless and overly agreeable, I give affirmative responses to most questions and suggestions while appearing to be afloat in my own world. To an outsider, it is one that seems to be without many words.
The proposed project will recreate the European city state of Monaco into a 500-foot watercraft equipped with swimming pool, gym, a submarine, a salon, private massage suites, a casino, a detachable submarine, and… you get the point. Well, maybe you don’t, because it also has a heliport and extra mini-yachts.
There’s a certain romance people both believe and attempt to pursue in their engagement of these activities (I think this is a completely reasonable goal, by the way) and I’m here today to discuss those that I think are most pervasive.
In my version of hell, I’m always going to the dentist. I’m feeling their rubber gloves against my slimy teeth, listening to Amy Grant on the office speakers, and getting sprayed with cotton candy flavored cleaner. And they’re drilling. By golly, are they ever drilling.
The crowd gets excited to hear something familiar in a new way. It’s same way people go crazy at a Dave Matthews Band show when they hear the first few chords of “All Along The Watchtower.” The pleasure of being surprised with something familiar provides the rush of the unexpected without the anxiety of the unknown.
Once I had a beard, and longer hair. I wore whatever I wanted. My actions were derived from conscious choices. Spare time was abundant and used to nourish my mind, my body, and my soul. I moved often, sometimes on a whim, but mainly to find a better job. No one told me where to go. No one held my hand. There was no plan. There was no paperwork. There was just me: my mind, my dreams, my life, and my choices. I loved it.
In a perfect world, everyone you loved would love you back. It’d be as easy as 1, 2, 3. “Oh, you love me? I love you back then. No questions asked.” There’d be no unreturned texts, no jabs, no infidelity. They’d be exactly how you want them to be.
Chances are if you were born in the 80s your parents were Baby Boomers, who, after a wild foray into hippie culture at their tertiary educational facility in the 70s, realized that it was time to put down the bong, buy a house, get a job in the public sector and start raising a family. And what better time, they thought, than the 80s.
You walk four blocks north and three blocks west and he sits perfectly poised in your palm the entire time, not like an animal with wings but like something more domesticated, something settled. Strangers on the sidewalk shoot you an odd eye, but you don’t mind it. They’re just trying to figure out how to get what you got.
We discovered early on that writing songs – even techno – requires skill. But once we figured out the kick-hat-kick-hat + snare roll formula, things slowly came together. Then when we realized you can drop techno down to 85 beats-per-minute and essentially create ‘80s-style rap beats… well; it all sort of snowballed from there.
I guess it’s because I’m with my body every single day. I’ve been with it through hard times and good times. I’ve seen the weird things it can do. I’ve been repulsed by it, disappointed and scared of it. That being said, I’ve also seen it look really good and have thought to myself, “Okay, fine. I would take you home after 1.5 drinks. I get it.”
If we’re being honest (that is what Thought Catalog is for, right?), I’ll admit that there are people I’d rather delete than keep on Facebook/ in my life, but they remain because it would be rude to cut them out, and it’s hard to admit when any relationship is hopeless.
We can’t sit still. And that’s okay, because when we hang out, we all warm our laps with little boxes wearing glowing fruit. Videos of animals in their infancy are there to fill the sagging space where conversation used to reside. We really need never look each other in the eye, unless we’re doing Facetime.
Every year, for three weeks in July, my younger brother and I would wake up before sunrise. We’d pack our lunch boxes and drive to the school parking lot where an old rented school bus would take us to the field of the day. I remember those early mornings as a haze: 30-or-so tired kids sitting silently on a bus, praying that the drive would be just a little longer and watching as the sun lifted over the horizon like a boiling egg yolk.
I called 211. 311. 411. 511. 611. 711. 811. Then I’d stop. I’d call for a free two-minute reading from Miss Cleo, and then I’d call her competitors. Psychic Circle. Psychic Readers Network. Psychic Solution. I figured if I got a bunch of free two-minute readings, it’d equal out to one full reading. Then everything would make sense.
Litigants are destined for a verbal smack down for any number of undeserved reasons – if they dare stutter, stammer or, god forbid, deliver what this Judge deems to be excessive information.
In a baffling lack of oversight that incited a federal class-action lawsuit, a Minnesota school district allowed students to hold an unofficial Homecoming event called “Wigger Wednesday” at Red Wing High School in 2009.
You don’t lose your feminism when you get a bikini wax or shave your arms or laugh along to a Nancy Meyers movie. Your feminism doesn’t go missing when you don’t behave directly in accordance with your beliefs. It will always be there. It’s who you are. You either have it or you don’t.
There are some childhood cartoons that seem to be universally remembered and continuously recalled in nostalgic conversation. It’s these shows that we all carry stories about, but what of the shows you watched just as vehemently, but for one reason or any other have fallen through the growing cracks in your adult brain?
A follow up to a flowchart called “So You Found Something Cool On The Internet,” here’s the flowchart of the internet argument – thought up by H. Caldwell Tanner and Rosscott Nover – that should effectively end all internet arguments, if anyone actually reads all the way through it.
My aunt had been waiting for us and she pulled me into her and kissed both my cheeks. With her arm around my shoulders she guided me through the musty apartment where remnants of someone’s lifetime—maybe even mine—hung on every wall and cluttered every shelf, pervading the dusty half light with a feeling that bordered on nostalgia, but that hinted at something far more ancient.
It’s implicit in the name. One must be skinny to wear skinny jeans. They pinch your lower leg while blowing up your thighs, making even a thin person look a little curvaceous. Damn skinny jeans for tricking an entire generation of twenty-somethings into thinking they could wear that kind of denim cut.
If anyone’s in a long distance relationship while studying abroad you don’t expect it to last. The Real World teaches us to believe people who move far away, with strangers, are obviously unhappy in their relationships and don’t actually intend to make it work overseas. Cheating? A dramatic break up over the phone? You’ve learned to expect both.
Wonder if one of these doors leads to Narnia or to a really cute guy in a suit playing piano by himself because he’s bashful about people hearing him even though he’s really good. Think about your own wedding to piano guy at this venue.
Not too long ago, I had to say it. I found myself in a situation in which the only mature, responsible, appropriate thing to do was to grit my teeth, swallow my pride, and let the tissue-thin words slip from between my lips: “I’m happy for you.”
Leave for work/ funemployment activities/ assorted errands without paying attention to what you’re wearing and the situation on your face and with your hair. I’m in no way advocating following the Oprah always leave your house looking your best!!!! dictum to the letter because I am far too lazy, but you can’t fall in love or even momentary lust on the uptown 2/3 express when your greasy hair is slicked to your scalp like you just got out of a pool.
I’m still not sure what it is that makes two people right together—whether it’s us or simply a perfect alignment of circumstances in which a certain relationship can evolve—whatever, we are right together. In this vast city where everything and everyone is coming and going at a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it-pace, we found a way to stand still together.
These two identities are whole and they are living. They live side by side inside of me. I don’t know if they’re in my soul, or my blood, or my heart, or my brain, but they’re there all the time. Sometimes they interact peacefully, sometimes violently. But the important thing is that they are whole.
My hands. Tonight I am in love with my hands. They are delicate things, much like the rest of my cellophane and Diet Coke body, dexterous from years of classical musicianship. Yet they are marked with a few too many lines around the bends, lines I once abhorred for making them look old, lines I now hold up in drunken defense of my “old soul.”
I do not know a single soul on this urban island. I know of old acquaintances, old lovers and friends’ of friends’ of friend’s. Or in my case: a friend’s little sister’s ex-best friend-turned junkie. I am alone in San Francisco, on this godforsaken isle—all because I was hungry and selfish to discover independence on my own.
Summertime babes, you are making me and my bizarre neck sweat look bad. I thought we were all in this together. I thought it was understood that we’d all look like crap during the summer so why did you have to change the game on me?
I remember the first week I was in New York and I was riding the 6 with a girlfriend when a light bulb flashed above my head. We were on the 6. On The 6. J-Lo to this headline clips. I don’t think I need to recount the all-singing, all-dancing extravaganza that ensued.
Sooo, we good? Nice dog, by the way. What is he? An American pit bull? Is he friendly? Oh. Okay, I’ll keep that in mind next time I see him on your steps. We’re more cat people, ourselves. Though cats can be pretty mean too. Our Persian is real feisty. Check out this scratch on my arm… Brutal, right?
It’s pretty clear that this is casual dating to you, but to me, I have grand plans for the two of us. I’m going to break you from your overtly calm exterior. You are going to hold me all night as I drift to sleep in your arms. You may only have two or three feelings, but I have millions, and I am going to talk about them forever.
I just, like, wanted to apologize for being such a little jerk to you in high school and even in college. I had this weird epiphany the other day when I realized you guys were human and it blew my mind.
When away from the internet, say at the grocery store or in line at Chipotle on your lunch break from an office job that requires you to be on the internet 8-10 hours a day, you actually experience these consistent twinges of visceral longing to check your email, kind of like if you checked it you’d feel normal again, or satiated in some way.
Instead of being the friend you’ve missed for the past nine months, it becomes a terrorizing bugaboo and a painful reminder that you’re growing up. You’re not allowed to have summer anymore. NO SUMMER FOR YOU, YOU 24-YEAR-OLD!
Do not flirt with the cute male assistant in our department. Odds are I’ve slept with him and it’s awkward between us. He’s only talking to you to hurt me.
Revisiting relationships that meant the world to us in our formative years is tempting, but it often affirms an idea that no one wants to fully commit to – the idea that people change – that we change. It scares us that we can feel such disdain or indifference toward someone we used to spend every waking hour with.
The Katy Perry: Two plump chicken breasts with not a lot else going on. Good for about another fifteen minutes.
I’ve never made a Bucket List. No list of lists is complete without this Lord of Lists, the King of Columns, Emperor of Enumerations, if you will. So let’s take a stab at it.
Eat food. Okay, you really shouldn’t do this—eating when you’re bored is a recipe for disaster and serious weight gain—but maybe you should eat a little bit just to, you know, pass the time. Munch on things like chips and crackers, things that will give you a stomachache before they actually make you feel full, and then hate yourself for the entire rest of the day.
I want to ask her if, when I am her age, I will have figured out how to clean my shower so that I don’t feel dirtier when I sit on the floor to shave my legs. I want to ask her where I will live—if my love affair with the South and its afternoon thunderstorms and cicadas and heat will have ended, if I will live in a small apartment in a city or a sprawling house with a lawn and trees.