I just really want to start a zine called AHH!dulthood about this very thing, about the immediately post-collegiate years as a series of seemingly insane compromises between participating effectively in the structure of the grown up world and still feeling your own life to be pretty deeply fucked. It would be about signing government documents recommending a friend for security clearance while hungover after GYPCY 2-for-1 night, and about helping another friend decide how to lie about his drug history on a background check for an big deal defense company where he’s now employed, about having a flexible spending account that only ever got used for the morning after pill and several years’ worth of contact lenses, about scheduling dentist’s appointments and follow up work and paying the bills and still being a person who skips dinner every now and again for an evening alone with whiskey and bad television. About going through the motions and falling through the cracks, trying to decide which of those things means more about who we are and what we’re faking, whether we’re pulling it off or just fooling ourselves about having grown up ever, at all. (And whether we want to, actually, now that we know what it looks like over there. All that freedom and all that responsibility. I could have cake for breakfast every morning, and you know, I never do.)

cleareyesfullhearts:

Z’s bride-approved shoes finally arrived in the mail, and she sent me a picture of herself in full bridesmaid: pastel-colored strapless dress and off-white, open-toed low-heeled pumps. I haven’t been in a wedding since my brief turn as a flower girl in the early ’90s, and, unlike Z, no one I’m…