Doing Fine Still

Okay so I'm 25. Quarter of a century. Shit. By this point I should have some idea where my life is headed right? I should have some inkling of where I want to be in ten years or what major achievements I want to share with the world.

It's not like i'm 70 and sweating over relatives gently nudging me towards a retirement home and early bedtimes and all day pyjamas and a gravestone. No my situation isn't that bad. It's just that I figured at this point in my life I would have a vague game plan. Or at least a hail mary shot that I could pull out of my ass if things get really desperate. But all I'm getting is panicked blankness and internal confusion and late night bad TV.

School was great. There were challenges and goals and anything good got you a pat on the back and public recognition. My Arts Degree gave me a feeling of superiority that my classmates and I were sharing an insight into the world that made me an enlightened person... a smart person. And it's nice to feel like this. You can sleep securely knowing the world is slightly better for having you in it and that one day everyone will publically acknowledge this fact.

But plopped out into the real world at the end of my degree there is nothing but thumb twiddling to occupy my time. Turns out the community isn't crying for self-righteous arts students to take up a position of 'Community Advisor' or 'Life Guider' and that's a shame because no doubt my massive intellect could revolutionise the Western World. In fact there's hardly any job related to my skills at all. So mine is now a lifestyle of late breakfasts and Xbox games, blank stares and cynical world views and not a lot of cash while waiting for the world to come to it's senses.

But at 25 I should have figured something out right? It's like nature. If the world won't realise my potential then I should have an inherent drive that sorts this shit out for me shouldn't I? Some sort of survival tactic or internal programming that kicks in when I find myself directionless and spinning my wheels that puts me into a temporary slumber like state so that when I wake up I'm a celebrity and a C.E.O and an all round kick-ass guy ready to stick a finger up to an unenlightened society.

Deep down I know it: that slumber like state I'm wishing for is the period of life called 'hard work'. And it's described to kids as that character building, life defining, most enjoyable phase of your life journey (just to reduce you complaining about working hard I suspect). And to skip this phase of life would be to rob myself of the tears of joy and sorrow that would mould me into a world-wizened warrior. But I'm OK with that. If I'm fast learning one thing about myself it's that I'm lazy.

But it's been about three years of time wasting and it seems this 'hard work' is unavoidable. The lotto ticket I bought didn't win and there are no rich relatives on the brink of leaving me a fortune in their will. So I may as well give it a go. Stick a toe in the pool of 'hard work' (although secretly I suspect it's beneath me).

A writer. I'll be a writer. That's a vague enough title to give the impression I'm working without having to show much for it. "I'm formulating ideas!" I'll say, or, "The ideas are gestating and I can guarantee you'll love them!". Since I've made the decision to tell everyone I'm a writer, I should at least give off the impression I'm making an effort. So that's why I'm here, at a coffeeshop on my laptop.

So far so good. No one here suspects a thing and I'm about to order my fourth flat white..