I am waking up covered in the ashes of my youth. My twenties are packing up their shit and moving out, leaving me sitting in an empty apartment with thirty. This is building up to be the worst blind date of my life. My twenties aren’t bringing much with them, though. The place didn’t exactly accumulate a wealth of “stuff.” Sure, there are a lot of memories, but the question is how many of them are desirable to revisit? My twenties were spent sleeping on the floor and waking up on a treadmill. Constantly moving from hangover to blackout to a panicking sobriety lasting no more than a week. Then the cycle would pick back up until a year slipped by. Plans to get shit together were scribbled in sharpies on lined paper torn from college ruled notebooks, taped up on the wall to be stared at with steadily evaporating motivation until the next alcohol-induced paralysis hit. Goals, dreams, ambitions…, any courses of action were flirtations, quickly forgotten against the easy lusting seduction of drinking. The escape that left no exit. Now here I am, in the hole I dug, ready to break the shovel in half in hopes of remaining with a splintered end sharp enough to fall on. But these are jokes. I don’t want to die, but I sure love writing about it. The fantasy is enough for me. I’m too stubborn to give up on my life, and too self-aware of just how privileged I am to be who I am and to exist where I do. The self-pity of the global 1%. Yea, I’ll bitch and moan. But I’ll get through this. We’ll get through this together.