Moldy Mondays and That Mess I Call My Life

I was weighing the pros and cons of boiling pasta in a skillet when I realized it. My life is a mess.

Even if I had had the time, I didn’t have the room to clean a pot in our kitchen of chaos. I’ve been eating out of Tupperware for days for the same reason.

On a similar note, I actually Googled whether or not it’s safe to tear the mold off of bread and still eat it. When Yahoo Answers advised against it, I did it anyway. I have neither the time nor the funds to  get more bread.

I feel like I just don’t stop. A bill always has to be paid, usually with a late fee. There’s always a new e-mail to answer, new tasks at work, a project, paper, or unpaid newsroom shift.

And I’m always running late. Always forgetting to do stuff or stressed because I assume I forgot to do something. I’m 100 miles per hour all day, multitasking like a champion. I just paid an MU bill online, scheduled an appointment to get my oil changed AND cooked moldy garlic bread—all at the same time.

And the worst part about it is, I’m poor. Being 22 and still having to rely on my parents’ income makes me feel like a bitch. But at least I’m a thankful bitch. Thank you mom and pops!

I guess I’m not special. (Yes I am). In this situation, I’m no different than every other college student: overworked and under (read: barely) paid. I just feel like I’ve been doing homework for far too long. Something like 17 years. I’m over it.

Then I think about why our kitchen is such a mess and why I can’t afford a new loaf of bread. It has a little something to do with our weekend drinking binge that only stopped long enough to sleep a few hours. It has a little something to do with being in college.

College. When it’s appropriate to start drinking in the a.m. because strangers are getting ready to play football down the street.

College. When passing out on the couch in snow boots while it’s 70 degrees is just another Friday, and eating drunken El Rancho with friends is more satisfying than sex.

College. When three grown women can choreograph dances in a messy kitchen, laughing until it hurts, only half-caring if the neighbors see. Because we’re not really grown at all.

And I suppose I’ll eat a little mold any day if it means not really being grown at all.