It’s weird realizing I’m 28 years old and I don’t really know who I am anymore than a Buzzfeed quiz knows me. Is it just a sign of the times? Buzzfeed can ask me 10 random questions and can then thoroughly conclude that of all the foods on Earth, I am a donut, “the most extravagant of breakfasts”. What font am I? I’m Helvetica. I’m a study in contrasts. I’m skinny but curvy, the supreme overlord of any room without having to say a word. What animal am I? I’m a bald fucking eagle. Few see the world like me. Somehow it all sounds more accurate than anything I could come up with.
Most of the time I look in the mirror and even though I recognize my green eyes and butt chin, I don’t really know what the fuck I’m doing occupying this body in this lifetime and in this space of the Universe.
Some mildly cross-eyed drunk guy with a gold grill and dreadlocks sticking in all directions asked me what my “5 year plan” is at an art gallery last weekend. I’m sober and way too old to be turning up at that kind of cocaine and Hennessy-fueled “art” party, and not skinny enough to be standing there near any of the Russian model-esque girls with fake tits and swollen lips, but I honestly thought I maybe had some shit going for me until this guy slurred something about a five year plan. At that moment, he didn’t seem like he could think his way out of a paper bag, but it seemed he at least had his own five year plan.
My five year plan? Not dying.
Really though, staying alive is fucking hard. Every day on this Earth is a battle where we don’t get what we want, our ideas don’t come to fruition quite how we want them to, our hearts get broken, things don’t go as planned, nothing measures up to how we imagined it, we run out of toilet paper at inconvenient times, reality betrays us, we find out we’re wrong, we find out we don’t really know shit about anything, really, like, at all.
And maybe that’s all life is, trying to figure out who you are and never really getting any closer to finding yourself. Maybe personality is a paradox. Maybe we never fucking figure it out and all we do is a try repeatedly and fail repeatedly and then die. But right now I’m still alive.
And I’m a selfish, grandiose little fuck.
My ideal five year plan would be to come into unexpected unlimited wealth, travel the world relentlessly, get a few PhDs, publish a few best-selling books, fall in love with the partner of my dreams who always makes me cum, eat extravagant meals every day, run a marathon, cover my body in tattoos, discover a latent artistic talent that inspires a whole new creative chapter to my life, not have to “work” to earn income (ever again), smash the patriarchy once and for all, and maybe pop out a perfect version of myself before I’m too old to procreate.
But if I’m honest, and by honest I just mean firmly grounded in reality, my 5 year plan is to be able to afford my insane San Francisco rent and not become homeless, to imagine someday not having to live with circus performer roommates, to get more than 50 views on something I write on this blog, to figure out how to not have to pay my $77K student loans back, to meet a guy who’s emotionally available and doesn’t snore and has a real job and texts back 80% of the time, to not get too much cellulite, and to not die (yet).