Don't Worry, It Gets Worse: One Twentysomething's (Mostly Failed) Attempts at Adulthood

If you want to keep your dignity intact, stay away from tequila.

We're romantic. We're hopeful. We're done for. The worst part of this all? The idea of struggle and compromise seems exciting to us-that's how stupid we are. There's no stopping fools, I say. We're still kids at heart. Those dreams are still there. Now we just have to go chase them.

A few years ago, I graduated college, diploma in one hand, margarita in the other, completely oblivious to the shit storm that was coming my way. Here's a preview: becoming a living, breathing, job-having, bill-paying, responsible adult? Really fucking difficult.

There is plenty of suffering before the good happens. This is something that I have taken stock in, because I’ve dealt with plenty of bullshit for somebody so fresh out of the womb.

When I god older and realized my life was built around the idea my career would be something I wanted to love, to strive for, to be proud of, I was scared.

Life is not a movie. No happy ending is guaranteed. No wound is closed by magic. There had been lessons I had been refusing to learn. How if you aren’t letting somebody know they’re hurting you, they’ll keep doing it. How if you aren’t letting yourself know you’re hurting yourself, you’ll keep dating assholes.

My lofty ambitions are partially due to the fact that I'm part of generation, "Yes You Can, I Guess: How about I throw a combination of money, attention, and prescription medication at the problem?

Really, I want you to finish this book feeling like we could become friends, if the timing was right. That's it. Oh, and by the way, you should drink while you're reading this book. If you want to play a drinking game, I suggest you take a shot when you feel like I am abusing commas.

And then there’s me, terribly afraid to step out of the box and date someone different. Afraid to get hurt in a different, more complex way—by somebody who I actually trust and care about. My biggest fear. Nice guy was a bad word to me because I feared that lurching-stomach feeling of losing someone I love. Nice meant future, and the future was always uncertain.

After all, the way I see it, it takes only one person to murder you. It also takes only one person to fill your heart with the kind of joy that slaps you straight off your high horse. For the first time in a long time, I found myself believing in the possibility of both.

Not every girl has a bad-boy problem. Some of my friends get into relationships constantly. Others cheat all the time, or run away. Some get jealous. Some think they are too undateable to even try. Our dating pool is a circus of fuckups, misfits, and past mistakes that we keep on making. The brand of baggage you’re carrying on your back is the issue. But most of all, I think we fear the same thing. I think that thing is love. Real love. Think of your first love. Think of how Bambi-like you were, prancing around all excited and in love with everything. Then think of how that happiness was beaten to death with a hatchet, spit on, shit on, leaving you cold. If you watch something you care about get destroyed, you’re not going to want to go back to that place, no matter how pleasant it ever was.

Being at home was like a mattress to fall back on with the smallest of peas on the bottom, just large enough to bother the princess. I was damn lucky that I had a place to call home, but I didn't like the feeling of stealing my parents food and being unable to tell them when I could ever afford my own.

Whenever someone brings up the traits associated with being a functional human otherwise known as an "adult," I think, is this even possible for me? Probably not, is what I conclude. I mean, I'll eventually pay off my college loans at the age of forty-five by selling what's left of my liver, and I'll probably manage to find sustenance and remember to breathe oxygen constantly. I'll survive. However, for people like me...There will be years of struggle to keep myself afloat.

Let me tell you something—staying up all night working on a paper about Malcolm X ain’t got shit on staying up all night wondering if you will run out of money.

Nobody wants to say, “I’m trying to get my feet on the ground” when they’re in their twenties. They want you to think they’re about to do something dangerous, or exciting, or different. We’re not “living at home,” we’re “crashing until we can afford a pad in Brooklyn.

Here’s a preview: becoming a living, breathing, job-having, bill-paying, responsible adult? Really fucking difficult.

Here’s how it works: If you answer yes to ten or more questions, then you should read this book. If you don’t, then buy it anyway and give it to the coolest person you know. This author needs money to eat her feelings. Does your college degree hang over your head like a rain cloud made of student loans, false hopes,

Those movies taught a valuable lesson that has stuck with me for years: The moment you seek solace in a stranger, a man wearing a boxy leather jacket will break into your house and chase you around before you have to kill him in a swelling conclusion of self-defense.

I’ve always been—despite my deep desire to become one of those writers who actually felt the immense weight of suffering—a fairly optimistic person.

Even the toughest of brothers can’t make their sister change the things they think they are entitled to. They can’t move you away from the jerks. They can simply hold their breath and their baseball bat.

What does one do when every day is an open-ended schedule? Let’s see. I ate a lot. I organized my clothes by color one day. I tried to cut my own hair. Mostly, I did a lot of lazing around. I tried to get up early in the morning, because every time I got up after 12 P.M., I felt like I was acting like the irresponsible stepfather of my own life.