Becoming 21 is like Peter Parker getting bitten by a radioactive spider, except you suddenly have the power to purchase alcohol, not crawl on walls. After the hazy summer that I turned 21 I had a foreboding feeling in my stomach that could not be attributed to alcohol. College graduation was quickly approaching, but I had no career prospectives. The reckless days of intoxicating myself with my parents money now seemed distant. It was the end of my Tom Sawyer lifestyle.
As I sipped on my eight dollar gin and tonic I was stricken by a sudden longing for the high school life that I dreaded in the past. I came home to my small apartment filled with comics, dvd’s, and a stack of unread text books to finally realize that I haven’t accomplished shit in the past four years in San Francisco. I was a jobless scumbag, a malfunctioned gear in the social machine, a poster boy for the apathetic tail end of Generation Y.
At some point in our youth we accept the notion that “the world is a cruel place, so fuck it.” We are all caught in the rip tide of American drug culture and making excuses. The growing discontent for the world that we were not trained to inherit from our parents has clouded the vision of our dreams and aspirations. We have indulged ourselves in hedonistic pleasures so much that our senses are too numb to realize that we have been heading in the wrong direction for years. Wake up.
Something a Little More Optimistic.
