Kittens On Rollerskates

What Would Trash Mule Do? Because she is my kind of girl, Trash Mule would ignore her burden.

Do you (streeeeetch with me here) remember back when it was borderline ok to text friends things like “Oh, boy, I haven’t slept in three days!” or “Whoopsies! I got stoned before work for the first time in a quick minute, wish me luck, currently defending my position here!” or “Do you think it’s dangerous to drink red wine that has two flies in it because I lost the cork, even if I fish them out with a chopstick first and it isn’t Africa over here right now?” Whatever happened to those friends? Is it just me, or have they become shockingly judgmental in terms of self-realization? Because I strongly discourage this kind of evolution. I’m against it. It can only lead to one thing. And friends, that thing is a powerfully painful lil toxin known as growth, and with the notable exception of midgets, nobody needs that germ.

This transition to adulthood will ultimately drive the car to one of a number of undesirable locations and slap that pup into park, including but not limited to:

-You have become an adult. Cool and all, but don’t expect me to give you a speech. What you are basically telling me with all your responsible, at-work-on-time, 2-drink-max-on-a-school-night, in-your-face bullshit is that I am worlds behind you and may as well give up nowish. You aren’t inspiring me, you are discouraging me from trying. You are causing me to feel defiance towards balance. Is this what you wanted? Because you got it, whore.

-You can finally see my true colors. These colors include rash and flighty, and though you may just be seeing that now, I have been aware for longer than you think. It’s like, so I’m afraid of answering my phone so we never talk. What of it? I am fun when we do catch up, and I care a lot about making you laugh, so what’s the problem? (Update: If you still have a problem I will buy you a beer, because it is crucial that you like me.) I am what I am (a traditional family excuse for not being good to each other). I may be silly, but the seedy underbelly of your TCB nature is showing from here, and it is fuschia. And I would just rather die than join you in that.

-You just got your first “real” job outside of college. Super. Super psyched for you. By which I mean to say: Doing tasks, no matter the level of skill involved, in exchange for some cash to come spend at the bar with me does not a professional make. You become a professional when you stop going to the bar if your rent is late. That is the rule. Now, I have friends who are completely competent at whatever they do, and don’t get so smug about it that they can’t play cards at the bar til one on a Tuesday. However there are others, whom I now clearly see for what they are, that consider landing a job a fitting way to end a years-long life method of avoiding what they really are (hot messes). I like the type that’s into what they do but not above acting like a twelve year old (like my chef friend who screeched her number at a bartender the other day said: “I can go back in a week. A week is the reset button.” Leaving shame at the door is an asset, friend-wise.) You, if you have been close to me, are not a victorious winner, nor a wretched loser. You’re just some person. Make room for that idea, because it wants to sit right next to you. You will probably never impress me.

-You will probably impress me by having a long-term relationship or having children. Like, how? Is this like the cursive-intensive week I missed in elementary school, thereby never knowing how to do it? Did strep throat stop me from having a productive adult life? When I see a friend who somehow has had the same bf/gf for three years or longer I decide not that I’ll find the right one someday, but that I’m destined to be a spinster. And kids? Are you fucking kidding me? Clearly I was out the day they taught us how to do that. I am not to blame. Contact me, I’ll get you my dad’s email, you should probably just cut a corner and complain to him.

-You aren’t currently listening to a Blondie cover by The Talking Heads. You and your education are to blame for this, Trebek. Beethoven called, he wants his lackeys back. Short of burning you a CD, I am out of options here. It is midnight and here I am, living the dream, while you are at your place actually dreaming things that you will invariably need to tell me about tomorrow. It’s about taking initiative. You have to really focus on being entirely useless when your alarm goes off, it doesn’t happen on its own. You’re up against Nature here, so bring your A game. Hey, also, could you not do that telling me your dreams thing, unless it’s super important? My dreams are intensive and I’m usually a half-vampire in them, and unless you dream in funny/pot, I don’t need anything else on my sleep plate. Talk to me when your dreams are about me.

So while I wish all of you the very best of all the things, I basically don’t want to talk to you anymore if you are all caught up on laundry or you smoke but not inside or whatever. Go tell your work friends at the martini bar. I’m just gonna go get my phone which I forgot to charge last night, slap some makeup on these goggle-like eye circles, trip over the recycling I’m hoping my bff/Trash Mule will carry to the dumpster for me, and go to the dive bar with some really good pool players.