The Weight of Being an Adult

The weight of being an adult, I wish I knew it better. The weight of being an adult, I should have known life was not going to be a fairy tale. The weight of being an adult, what does it mean to be an adult? 

I’m 31, turning 32. Two cats, married, no kids. No job, no house, no car, can’t drive, do not have a license. Can buy an ounce of marijana each time, limitless shrooms after passing two armed security guards. Can check out 100 books each time from Santa Clara County Library. One hundred, isn’t that too many?  I could have a room full of hundreds of books and have them replaced by new books every season if I have three cards. I already have two. 

I’m 31, turning 32. I’m starting to like jazz, blues, vinyl, turning my laptop display to black and white, using eye drops three times a day with three different kinds, and a face mask twice a day, because it wakes me up. Quitting cigarettes, will keep smoking weed. I went to the pride parade yesterday, and realized one beer would make me confused now, meds, marijana, alcohol, nicotine attacking my mind at the same time. 

I’m 31, turning 32. I’m starting to realize, this is the world we are left with, it’s up to me now, to make it better. Maybe this is why people have kids, if it wasn’t for the next generation, who’d be motivated to make anything better? Not for ourselves, that’s for sure. I don’t think I'm worthy enough for me to work hard for myself to live in a better world. I’m not that arrogant to think I deserve a better world, I’m not that delusional to think I can make it a better world, but hey, what’s the fun in being realistic? 

It’s not realistic, the fact that I exist, that you exist. It’s not realistic that we live in a black hole, but we do. Everything is so stable, gravity, temperature, UV, no extraterrestrial life, just you and me. There’s one in a billion chances we are alive, yet here we are. 

So what’s the fun in being realistic?