At 33-years-old, I still feel like a child. I live in a tiny one-roomed apartment (not a one -bedroom apartment, my apartment is literally one room), I drink myself into oblivion on weekends, and the only food in my fridge right now is rotting lettuce and an empty mustard bottle. I sleep on a mattress on the floor. The only tools I own are a hammer and a wine opener. My bank account is empty, my merchant accounts are stagnant. I own a cat whom I say things to like “who’s my cute little kitty?” and “meow”. I do not own a car, I do not even own a bicycle, yet I somehow consider myself superior to the “losers” surrounding me on the bus.
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