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life starts at 18 with a part time job. Then you get a full-time job at 21 and degenerate into a life of monotony with sparse events of excitement other than birthdays, car accidents and terrorist attacks. You are quick to excitement in thinking that you've rejuvenated your youth spark with quick and easy access to alcohol, so you binge it all out every weekend with friends at da clubz.
You're older friends resent you for believing you are on a date with the bottle, and you're younger friends admire your sense of fun. As you are in the middle of your work week, packing envelopes into letters, selling dishwashers to single mothers, or watching cement dry, you realize that you are now the leader of a small clique, seeing as you are now the eldest and you're older friends have moved on to envelope themselves in capitalist society.
You're self esteem drops suddenly, and upon reflection in the mirror, you suddenly see yourself as "that kid" back in high school who was only "cool" because he could get cigarettes for the padwans. You go home, stay home, and drink.
Like so many others, I had become a slave to the Ikea nesting instinct. If I saw something like clever coffee table sin the shape of a yin and yang, I had to have it. I would flip through catalogs and wonder, "What kind of dining set defines me as a person?" We used to read pornography. Now it was the Horchow Collection. I had it all. Even the glass dishes with tiny bubbles and imperfections, proof they were crafted by the honest, simple, hard-working indigenous peoples of wherever. Most of the week we were Ozzie and Harriet, but every Saturday night we were finding something out: we were finding out more and more that we were not alone. It used to be that when I came home angry and depressed I'd just clean my condo, polish my Scandinavian furniture. I should have been looking for a new condo. I should have been haggling with my insurance company. I should have been upset about my nice, neat, flaming little shit. But I wasn't.
that's how life is. the end
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