Sometimes I feel guilty that I'm not living the way I always imagined I would in my twenties. When I imagined where I'd be now as a teenager I pictured, oh, squatting in a broken-down townhouse full of punks and artists and radicals, and writing beautiful terrible drunk poetry, and having awkward one-night stands. Getting cool haircuts. Not owning a TV. Maybe making zines or something. Drugs and late nights and waking up in unfamiliar places. Instead I'm in grad school, engaged, and living in an apartment in the not-quite-suburbs. With a TV and matching lamps. And a fuckton of cats.
I mean, I expected the cats. But not the rest of it. I wear cardigans now, and frame pictures instead of tacking them directly onto the wall, and I've fallen asleep on the couch three times this week! Before midnight, even!
I like my life, but I find it interesting that it bears so little resemblance to the way I thought I'd live when I was young. I don't believe in selling out as a concept anymore, really, for a lot of reasons, but I did back then, and I know that's what I'd think happened.
I still plan on getting a lot of tattoos, though. And cool haircuts. So there's that, I suppose.