I’m turning into my mother. It’s scary. Actually, it’s so far beyond scary that I can’t even begin to explain the terror I’m feeling in words. Believe me, I’ve tried. But every time I do my body instantly goes into spasm, puss shoots out of my eyeballs and my tongue flaps around outside my mouth like a confused trout. See, it just happened again. You can’t see me right now, but if you could you’d be laughing.
Back to the point. Like many of us, when I was younger my mother was the single most horrifyingly embarrassing person on the face of the Earth. She had the ability to make a scene like no one I’d ever met before. She was the epitome of that lady. That lady screaming at the waitress. That lady making the shop attendant cry. That lady having a breakdown at the check-out because she thought there was a deal on ice-cream but actually when she got to the register there wasn’t and now she’s so annoyed that she just needs to scream at someone and the chubby sixteen-year-old girl behind the register was the first person she saw and she thought, she’ll do. That lady was my mother. And now, that lady is me.
I yell at everyone—bus drivers, old people, charity workers. I show no mercy. And the worst part is I can’t explain why. Well, deep down I do know why. It’s because I hate the world and everyone in it. But I doubt many people would consider this a rational explanation. It’s like I’m constantly on the brink of having a mental breakdown. I’m a walking fucking heart attack. I can’t even get on public transportation these days because I’m too afraid I’m going to get claustrophobic and start yanking out the bus seats, barking like a dog and attacking babies with my eyelash curler. It’s frightening.
The reason this is all so ridiculous, though, is that I have nothing to be stressed out about. I don’t fucking DO anything. Why am I so on edge? Jesus. Imagine if I had a real job where I had to wake up at 8am every morning and, like, go and do work or something. Or if I had to do any of those other real people things I don’t do—like pay rent, make my bed, or take showers. I do none of these things. Not one. The only thing I have to worry about on a daily basis is whether to drink vodka or tequila, and whether to think about Jamie Bell or Gareth out of The Office when I masturbate. These are not difficult decisions.
I know your entire life everyone is always warning you that this will eventually happen to you—that you too will grow up to become everything you’ve always hated about those weird, anxious, deranged embarrassing adults that raised you—but I’m only twenty-two for fuck’s sake. I always thought I’d have at least a few more years of dicking around looking cool before I turned into the epitome of everything I despise.