Turning Twenty-Five (and realising I am not an adult)

I woke up the morning after turning twenty-five with my eyes glued shut and the second worst hangover of my life. The first was because I had gone to sleep with my false eyelashes still on and the latter was because of tequila. Then it hit me. No, not the wave of nausea (that came later when I actually left the confines of my bed) but the realisation that I am supposed to be an adult. I doubt an adult would pass out with her shoes still on after drinking a heavy amount of alcohol. If they do then bring on adulthood (but without the hangover please, it took all day to recover under The Blanket of Shame).

It was during my time spent under The Blanket of Shame (from IKEA and hanging on the back of the sofa unless it’s wrapped around my body while I watch a week’s worth of Love Island episodes) that I had the ‘genius’ idea of starting this blog. I decided I would write down all the random thoughts that popped into my head.

My first random thought being this: Holy crap, I’m twenty-five years old.

To be honest I don’t feel twenty-five. I certainly don’t act it most days. I’m terrible at washing up, I still can’t poach an egg without googling it beforehand and I find it impossible to wear white without spelling something (normally coffee) down myself. I’m a pretty piss poor adult. If you add the whole ‘woefully single’, living on ‘minimum wage’ and ‘not at all sure what to with life’ then you could basically call me an overgrown child. Actually just a child, I’m pretty short without heels.

So there we go, this whole thing came about because I drank my weight in tequila, passed out with my shoes (and make up/false eyelashes) still then hid under The Blanket of Shame. Hopefully one day I’ll be an adult but so far it doesn’t look likely.


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