I’ve learned a lot since I turned 30. I’ve learned that
if you’re going to buy sangria at the grocery store, make sure it already has
the brandy in it. I’ve learned that if you are polite to the transients and let
them talk to your dog like he’s a person they (probably) will not rob or stab
you. I’ve learned that when it’s humid outside your armpits will be constantly sticky,
no matter how much deodorant you put on. I’ve learned that just because someone
was your friend at one time, doesn’t mean they have to be your friend for
always (bye Felicia). I’ve learned that a beard doesn’t fix everything (i.e.
small penis, shitty personality, mommy issues), but being really great at oral
can help. I’ve learned if someone is really god damn annoying it’s ok to block
them on your iPhone, Facebook, Twitter, Gmail, Tinder, OkCupid, Myspace, AIM,
AOL, life, etc. I’ve learned that it’s ok to forgive, but only if it comes with
lots of free drinks, genuine sorrow and should probably involve Chanel
sunglasses. I’ve learned that it’s also ok not to forgive and wish crabs, bed
bugs and herpes of the eye on that son of a bitch. To get all sentimental up in
this bitch, I’ve also learned that real friends text you just to see how your
day went and keep asking questions when they know you’re lying. And I’ve
learned that my family is fucking nuts but I appreciate and adore each one of
them (especially my cutie baby niece who makes my heart hurt every time I see
her) and I need them to keep me grounded and slightly less homicidal (thanks
Mom for the muscle relaxers and wine).
The biggest lesson I’ve learned is that once you turn
30, people feel like they can ask you really fucked up questions and it’s totally
normal. Like all of a sudden you’re ready to discuss your menstrual cycle,
color of your cervix, and admit that your wine and pill relationship is merely to
fill the void of not having a husband and a 3 month old ripping off your nipple
after ripping open your favorite orifice. No one asked me these questions in my
20’s. Let’s do a little comparison between the questions asked at 20, and approximately
72 hours after you turn 30.
The Future/Financial
Stability
In your 20’s:
Q: What are your plans after college?
In your 30’s:
Q: Are you saving up to buy a house? What kind of health
insurance do you have? How’s your pension plan? When do you think you’ll be
able to retire? But seriously, how much money do you have saved to buy a house?
Listen bitches. I’m still on the question about what my
plans are after college. Yes, I realize I graduated college 7 years ago.
However, due to the alcohol consumption and bad decisions made immediately
afterwards, I like to pretend I just graduated a few years ago. And let’s be
real, my only plan for the future is maybe don’t die. Also, fuck your house.
Getting Wifed
Up and Pooping Out a Baby
In your 20’s:
Q: Do you have a boyfriend? (And if the answer is no the
response is always something positive like, “Good, stay single. There’s plenty
of time for that!” or “Enjoy your 20’s. Fuck everyone. Literally.”, etc.)
In your 30’s:
Q: Are you married? How soon can you lock that shit
down? Are you pregnant? How soon can you make that happen? How is your womb?
Are you ovulating right now because I think that guy with the glass eye across
the room is looking at you? Are you at least dating and trying to get a
husband? Have you tried match.com? Have you tried standing on a street corner with
a sign? How depressing is it being single in your 30’s?
Honestly, the fact that I haven’t offed myself yet
should be considered an accomplishment. One year ago people were congratulating
me on being single and married people yearned for my life. Now, people act like
I have a terminal disease or a face tumor and married people look at me with
sympathy and pretend they don’t want to smother their husband/wife with a pillow
every night. What the shit is happening? Shouldn’t I receive a Nobel Peace Prize
or something for not adding to the overpopulation of this country? Shouldn’t I
be high fived for my independence and women’s rights and leaving all the shitty
dudes there for you desperate bitches to have? Shouldn’t it be appreciated that
my downstairs is immaculate and there’s still a solid border between my v hole
and my b hole? So the answer to all the questions about marriage and babies is I’M
MOTHER FUCKING BUSY. Go talk to that bitch on the corner with a sign “Free to
good home.”
Miscellaneous Emotional
Fuckery
In your 20’s:
Q: What bars are you hanging out in now? Did you hear
your ex-boyfriend is dating a super gross 18 year-old? How are your
parents/siblings doing? How’s Hercules?
In your 30’s:
Q: God you STILL hang out at that bar? Did you hear your
ex-boyfriend is married to a super successful doctor and they hatched their
beautiful baby from an egg so she didn’t have to ruin her perfect vagina? Are
your parents still alive? How jealous are you that your brother has a really
adorable baby? Holy shit that dog is still alive!?
Okay. First of all, I don’t go to church, I go to
mimosas. Freedom of religion bitches. You sit in a pew, I sit on a barstool.
Mind your business. Yes, you would be the 11th person to tell me how well that
rancid turd is doing. Also that baby will realize it has a turd and a twat for
parents so I still WIN. I swallow my potential accidents. Yup, I said it.
My parents are still alive. Because they are in their 50’s
and I am ONLY 30 GOD DAMMIT. Also I realize that my older siblings are married,
with houses, and doing great. You don’t need to bring that to my attention. I
wake up in my studio in the ghetto every morning with a dog pressed up against
my asshole and a cat screaming in my face for food. Life choices. Turns out if
I decided to convince the dude with the glass eye at the bar that I’m ready to
lose my virginity and try it bareback I could poop out a baby. However, I’m not
sure if glass eyes are genetic and I’d rather just adore my baby niece and buy
her shoes instead of food, diapers, etc. And lastly, my dog will outlive us
all. See you at the end of days mother fuckers.
Next time you’re tempted to ask me, or any 30 year-old
who’s nailing it in her own way, a question that would require actual words
that would interrupt the flow of that margarita going down the throat, shut
your mouth. Then go home and ponder not shanking your husband while I go home
and drink wine on my couch without pants on. LIFE WIN.
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