1. Undulating Existential Crisis.
Around 10am, your Caffeine Diem has kicked in with the sense of hope that today will be a meaningful day. But by 5pm, you just want to crawl back into your mother’s womb and relive the fetal days where the impending sense of loss in this world didn’t exist. Tangling umbilical cord, kicking mom, and swimming in the amniotic fluid seem to serve exceedingly higher purposes than driving through the 1-10 freeway. Were you just put into this hopeless planet to be part of the rush hour? Yes.
2. Lactose Intolerance.
Lactose intolerance in the first world means paying an extra $.65 for a splash of soymilk in your coffee.
3. Swelling Wine Addiction.
As you start approaching the mid-twenty threshold, the $5 plastic bottle of liquor is gradually superseded by wine. Wine gives you a cerebral massage — it shuts down the shittiness for a while. Nobody can empathize better with you than the glass of gloriousness; it understands the bitter and sweet sides of urban life. Yet it is one step ahead of you because it knows the importance of relaxing. The only problem is these sophisticated corked bottles take up about 40% or more of the money you spend on groceries. Low food budget this month? Toss in that bottle of Pinot Noir along with Animal Crackers. Procyanidins and calcium are all you need.
Your passion for novellas was born before elementary school when your progenitor read you oeuvres such as Clifford, Dr. Seuss, and Winnie the Pooh, comprised of grand-sized artwork with few scribbled sentences. Then you were inundated with books that exceeded more than 100 words and reading started to become toxic to your eyesight. Skimming and watching Hollywood adaptations dominated most of your pubescence and early adulthood. One Monday, you decided to rekindle that old childhood love because reading seemed more soul enriching than replying to e-mails. But in the SAME EXACT WAY AS BEFORE — less than 100 words, summarized in sentences, and accompanied by large graphics. Forget about RSVPing to next week’s meeting, all you need is to learn the 10-emotional-deep-shits-in-your-twenties to achieve nirvana.
5. Inactive Anarchism Disorder.
One of your college electives was a class on Marxism, dictatorship, IR, misery, oppression, etc., which changed the way you viewed everything forever. That’s why you force everyone to re-listen to your speech against the system during Saturday brunches, quoting Professor Ottovordemgentschenfelde so those philistines who won’t question your argument. I mean, you are the only person who took Tyranny 101 with that guy — you are the ONLY ONE who learned to pronounce that last name. After reminding your friends what a shitty society they live in, you drive home in your Prius and spend the rest of the weekend Netflixing.
In another life, you were hiding behind a rock on a cliff, watching the barbarians burn down your village. But in this life, you are sitting in the metro across Muscle Milk-tank bro who is constantly scratching his balls. And you cannot move because the only free seat is beside that social activist who is holding a credit card reader. A motherfucking credit card reader. So you doodle on your phone to avoid eye contact. And it becomes a habit that naturally transitions to the dining table, workplace, airports, streets, coffee lines, bedroom — taking up basically 60% of your life. Doodling just becomes a knee-jerk reaction during free time. Even when you go out to the bar to meet people, you spend half the time doodling. Nobody knows what you’re doing and by the end of the day, you can’t really remember what you were doing either.
7. Passive Aggressive Speech Impairment.
To the world, you hold the self-proclaimed title of the ASS-dude (Always Super Serene dude). But deep inside there is a boiling lava of inferno that is anger ready to rocket out of your mouth every time anyone does anything that displeases you. Wasn’t your friend supposed to make a right turn here? That bonehead can’t do anything properly! What’s the use of those gorillashit fingers if he cannot make a simple turn? I mean, seriously? What the f… “You were sort of supposed to turn right.” (laughs a bit) “Just a small right turn back there, no biggies!” (laughs again) The rest of the world hopes that some day ASS-d will stop the macabre use of the alphabet and lose his shit authentically. Until then, we will all endure his disapproving laughter.
8. Romantic Hallucinations.
Despite the fact that everybody around us avoids commitment like U2’s album, there is a feeble hope inside that one of the 3.8 million people populating your city is the “the one.” Could be the guy who cut you on La Brea Ave or the girl who took your parking spot. You boast about the freedom of singlehood and tell others how your friend who works at the sperm bank can give you his employee discount for any future procreation. But inside, you wonder why it’s taking two or more decades for the “right person” to show up. Like, get it together right person! You have only one job. One. Job.
9. Chronic Dissatisfaction.
Woody Allen coined this disease in Vicky, Cristina, and Barcelona to diagnose individuals who cannot be satisfied with anything. Ever. They live with a horrible, engorging-ass gap in life that doesn’t allow them to be happy. It’s a psychological or a spiritual tumor that will eventually mutate further into menopause or midlife crisis, depending on whether your genitals sag inwards or outwards. You need constant stimulation and living in an advanced metropolis where the biggest challenge you face is creating a password that contains at least 12 characters, one capital letter, and a number does not help at all. Sure, for a second or two Panda3xpre$$ delivers immense satisfaction. But that feeling ultimately withers and the gap opens up again.