Chelsea Fagan

You are, in fact, just a part of an ever-narrowing series of sub-cultures and categories, this one called the SITCOM, or “single in twenties, clinging on to memories.”

Not getting enough exercise/fresh air during the day, as you are making steady progress on transforming into a barnacle attached somewhere between your bed and your laptop.

I can’t stand on a subway platform without a fleeting thought of “What if someone runs up behind me and pushes me in front of the oncoming train?” as I scoot several paces away from the rails.

Not having a bedtime, curfew, or authority figure who arbitrarily decides if you are allowed to go out this weekend.

But occasionally, a song will crop up that reminds us, “Hey! Women are beautiful and awesome and deserving of being on the receiving end of attention/pleasure sometimes — let’s celebrate that!”

Grabbing things with your toes and transferring them to your hands instead of bending down to pick them up.

There’s Team Mariah, who is willing to overlook her Xanaxed-out Cribs episode and odd marriage to Nick Cannon.

Life pulls us in different directions, and you realize that having become incompatible with someone is not necessarily a good or bad thing, only a truth of relationships.

Let’s talk about life here for a second. Spoiler alert: tons of people are going to have more money than you.

There is a deep cultural premium put on the “cool” of indifference in my generation, and it’s a persona that I doubt I could ever even fake. Because I do care, I care so deeply, and I am fairly certain I’m not alone.

All of my nights are long, morning people. All of them. No, I didn’t go to a meth-fueled rave out in the desert last night that kept me up until the wee hours (though that may have been preferable), I just had a normal night, likely in or around my own bed.

There are, of course, the first toddler-like steps you take when you fumble through words and sentence structures with all of the grace and nuance of a bull in a china shop.

If, at a certain point while looking for a toothbrush holder at Bed, Bath and Beyond, you find yourself utterly paralyzed in front of a set of matching hand towels, overwhelmed with the thought of sharing a home with this person you can’t get enough of — you could very well be in love.

Whatever this person is doing with their life, you no longer have the balls to do it. They’re quitting their job on a whim to go backpack through Asia. They’re dating gorgeous people they meet and ask out in the middle of the grocery store.

I know that just one tub of sweet-n-sour is not, and never will be, enough — I am prepared to avoid eye contact whilst I demand another to satisfy my hearty nugget dipping.

When I made the move to a big city without much in the way of disposable income and a 95 square foot apartment — yes, you read that correctly — you saved me from the brink of self-immolation by giving me loft bed options that maximized the space.

But on the other hand, if you confess to never having even tried weed, people are usually going to give you the general response of “Never? Not even once? And you’re not even curious!?”

Blogging without making the requisite announcement/tag that you are now “drunk blogging.” Everything written while drunk blogging is acceptable.