Excuses, Shmuses

A sheep stuck in a Lake District fence (UK).

Sometimes I feel stuck. I blame my inability to fully accept adulthood on the fact that my face still breaks out like a 15 year old the day before yearbook pictures.

This is how my brain works. I mean, holy moly, does that pile of cerebral membrane work overtime on making excuses. Frankly, it would easier just to do the things I'm avoiding with excuses, but whatevs. The cold, sad truth is, when I was 15 I acted like I was 30, now that I'm 30, I act like I'm 15, and not a very together one at that.

Boy crazy, but useless at dating; love the idea of a party, but fairly socially inept at them; hell, even my kitchen is stalked like a teenager - Cinnamon Toast Crunch, no milk, expired pudding, stale chips, and a wall of mystery takeout boxes that should never be opened.

When I gracefully proceeded out of my 20s (mostly by pretending it wasn't happening), I swore I was finally going to get it together. And I'm going to start on the first day of a month that starts on the first day of the week when I'm not so tired. No, really.