I am – for 99.98% of what counts – a functional adult. I have adulting down to such a skill that nobody thinks of me as anything other than a competent (if occasionally goofy) adult.
And that’s how I like it. Because owning my own shit, the good and the bad, is important. Took me a few years of therapy to get there, but I got there.
But some days? Some days, I really want to hand life – all the adulting shit – over to someone else and say “you take care of this, I can’t deal.”
*looks around*
Yeah. Doesn’t work that way for most of us, no. Dealing’s what’s required.
But for the rest of today? I’m gonna be in the pillow fort. With a book, a teddy bear, and a bottle of wine.
If anyone needs to join me, the password’s SULK.
*joins you with absurd games* yah, just had to break into my own car in the dark and the cold. screw ‘ought to’ and ‘adult’.
right now the clever disguise has failed