Last night I was doing some blog maintenance when I decided to hit up my old blog, the one I secretly wrote as I was finishing my undergrad and going completely batshit. Even though the blog only has five posts, they’re pretty hashed out and hilarious. I was 23, finishing up my fifth year of a four-year degree designed to maximize my postponement of “real life,” had no income and very few marketable skills to my name, and spent a lot of my time trying to devise fun new ways of delaying the onset of adulthood. I was also beginning to realize, to my horror, that writing was the only thing in the world I was seemingly any good at–a discovery that feels more like a diagnosis than a blessing, if you catch my meaning.

I read this post and I feel relieved in a way, because it’s clear that I’ve made some wise decisions since then and, just maybe, have mastered that transition from university no man’s land to a respectable young adulthood. I also ended up landing that internship mentioned at the end, though, contrary to what I had predicted, I kind of sucked at it (though the magazine still lets me write for them fairly often, which is awfully kind.)

Anyway, without further ado, 23-year-old freakouts from April 7, 2009:

You’d feel sorry for yourself too, man

Today, I:
-cried for approximately 3 hours
-ate an entire 2-pint tub of President’s Choice strawberry fruit on the bottom yogurt (which, nutritionally speaking, may as well be a Mickey D’s strawberry sundae with a side of acidophulus)
-consumed 2 different varieties of vegetarian pork product
-slept until 1p.m., straight through the 11 a.m. class that I swore to myself I wouldn’t miss for the millionth time this semester

1.) The crying began in the library during a G-chat with J about how our relationship is turning me into a B student, among other personal failures. “This is ridiculous” J typed as I logged out of Gmail (the online equivalent of slamming down the telephone receiver in the middle of someone else’s sentence, an act chock full of “fuck you” defiance that, thanks to the cell phone, I no longer have the pleasure of enjoying). It then continued as I biked home, climaxing with audible wheezing at the intersection of College and Huron, which drew concerned stares from passers by. It finished with bedroom blubbering as my roommate listened on from next door, which wouldn’t have been so bad if it weren’t the second time I’d subjected him to my self-pity this week.

These paper thin walls are a problem.

2.) The yogurt: an impulse purchase. When depressed, I buy sugary treats that I can potentially rationalize as “healthy” later on, when I will inevitably come to my senses. Still, 520 calories of syrupy dairy delight can only take one so far in life, especially when the most exercise said “one” has gotten in the last 2 weeks is best described as a sniffly bike 10-block bike ride (see above).

3.) Fake frozen piggies: J brought me some Morningstar Farms goods on his last visit home to trashy MI. I wanted Boca Brats, but apparently you can’t find those in suburban Detroit supermarkets (my guess: not certified Kosher. Just a theory). At any rate, he thought it’d be okay to bring me MF veggie Italian sausages and facon, which was thoughtful EXCEPT that MF sausages taste like crumbly spiced arse.

The facon (faux-bacon, if you will) is tasty but so scarily synthetic that its consumption leads me to consider strange fantasies of my innards turning into some kind of Willy Wonka-esque technicolor nightmare, whereby Oompa Loompa shaped mounds of partially digested fakeness pummel themselves against my digestive tract to the rhythm of cautionary singsongs against gastromic vice. First, there’s the texture: floppy and greasy while it cooks, the stuff actually hardens only after it’s removed from heat. So, basically, there’s no way to know whether you’ve acheived crispy baconlike perfection without stopping the cooking process and waiting for the damnded things to cool. If you underestimate the timing, you wind up the culinary equivalent of a bacon-flavored hangnail. If you overdo it you get the same thing, only cajun style.

Then, there’s the colour. I once saw this particular shade of brown-orangey-pinkish dayglo in a Behr paint sample over-enthusiastically monikered “Volcanic Blast.” Bitch, please.

Anyway, I ate about half a box of each. Comfort eater? Check. Masochist? Double check.

4.) A note to Big Pharm: I know “restless leg syndrome” is kind of a big deal among all those housewives and desk jockeys you cater to, but there’s a lot of money to be made in coming up with a remedy for “avoidance sleep.” You know, those 12-hour slumberthons that strike college students around the end of each semester. These are a combination of cram-enduced sleep deprivation and the young procrastinator’s bodily rejection of work. Anyway, a pharmaceutical intervention would have made today a whole lot better, if you catch my drift. Maybe a combination of Dexadrine and genetically modfied ginseng? Just sayin.’

5.) Tomorrow morning I have an interview for an amazing magazine internship that I would probably really good at. Trouble is, I have been socially sequestered in my own private workpod for the past 2 weeks, and it’s hard to be charming when you’ve forgotten how to carry a human conversation. I’ve also faced some major self-esteem blows recently which, when combined with my obsessive tendency to ruminate and rehash, have essentially convinced me that I am doomed to the glamorous career of toilet scrubbing (after deciding I am too blocky to be a stripper and too old to be an escort. Le sigh).

Whatevs. As they say, tomorrow’s a brand new day. Walk on the sunny side of the street. In every cloud, there’s a silver lining. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel… you get the picture.