My existential crisis at the tender age of 21

I knew I had arrived at the “approaching twenty-one-year-old life crisis” when I was riled up by my housemate to call the council about our bins and the state of our carpets, yet still felt as though my body was possessed by Voldemort when trying to eat an olive. These are the stereotypical activities I associate with being an adult, and they’ve led me to question whether I’m at all growing up.

To be honest, I have no idea, because what I like changes all the time. I can confirm that I don’t know what I want for my future self after graduation, leaving me like feeling like a lost warthog, searching for a Simba and Timone.

I like to think that I’m not alone in this confusion, and that everyone is experiencing their own individual crisis at this time. For example, on the one hand I enjoy bleaching the toilet and scrubbing the dead skin off my feet – they’re becoming mini Sahara deserts in their own right. But then I sometimes want to run through some fields of wheat, fall over, and then be consoled with a large Donervan’s chips. Most of the time I just want to become a bed burrito and eat mince pies, drown in crumbs and deny that it’s February now.

“I just want to become a bed burrito and eat mince pies, drown in crumbs and deny that it’s February now”

Furthermore, why have I suddenly acquired a taste for gin? Despite my younger vodka fuelled self concluding that it was for those who lived in New York and who didn’t forget to shave their kneecaps. I forget I have kneecaps, so when did this relationship begin?

Flickr / Azchael

If I’m entirely honest, sometimes I even forget that I attend University to learn, hopefully preparing to go into the world equipped with knowledge that doesn’t just revolve around the lives of Z list celebrities or the best place to get a flapjack around here. Instead, I use it to socialise, and silently channel disappointment at the person who decided to leave a collection of spoons in the kitchen sink. If I wanted to see such a sight I’d go to a cutlery museum.

I’ve also started to question my purpose when I’m introduced to people as the one who never puts on clothes, but is a dedicated wearer of the dressing gown. Yet I quite enjoy festering in my stained attire, because it’s comforting with smells of my favourite food. At the time of writing (February) I haven’t washed it since I purchased it in October. Please do not be horrified for it’s an empowered gown and can handle it.

It can be scary when everyone else seems to have it all figured out, as they have plans to travel and save alpacas, or make their billions before they’re 23, whilst you’re just trying to decide what flavour yoghurt suits your mood for the day or survive getting caught on the door handle six times in one hour.

“Will I ever stop stress dancing to that Robbie Williams song I once heard in a Johnny English film at 2 a.m.?”

The other day I was fulfilling my duty of cleaning the hob to maintain some kind of sanity within an eight-person household, and accidentally cut myself with the scourer. I had gotten it stuck in the hob and I then dramatically concluded that we were all going up in flames if I didn’t remove it with extreme force. I’ve since sworn off scourers for life (and cooking lentils but that’s another story).

Flickr / Yun Huang Yong

Will I ever stop stress dancing to that Robbie Williams song I once heard in a Johnny English film at 2am? Will I one day be able to cross the road without giving myself whiplash in order to survive? These are the life questions that I know will one day be answered.

I have realised that my rambling thoughts are just that. They aren’t facts. Nothing is for definite, we constantly evolve and we don’t even know what’s going to happen tomorrow. The scourer could have hired a spatula to off me, next but I can’t know for sure. This is just a reminder that things will become clear eventually, and that if they don’t then you’re welcome to come snack in the meantime.

Featured image: Flickr / Matthias Muehlbradt

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