Bubble and Squeak

I’ve always hated unnecessary lies and the people who make them, but lately I’m finding it increasingly hard to even be honest with myself.

The sad truth is that I’m not a child anymore, and I have to sleep in the bed that I have so uncomfortably, and sometimes poorly, made for myself. I’m tall enough to open up the pantry door and feed myself, wise enough to use matches and light fires, and old enough to answer the door to strangers and let them into my life. Soon I’ll have to vote and start paying taxes, get a decent job, buy a house, maybe find a suitable male and squeeze out a few kids while I’m at it. And honestly, because I am being completely honest aren’t I, this has me totally and utterly fucking terrified.

Out of the fry pan, and into the fire.

I’m finally starting to step out of my own little bubble of optimism and naivety, and am beginning to realise that not everyone has my best interests at heart. I’m not saying everyone has it in for me, far from it; it’s just that, above all we all count ourselves as number one and it’s taken me a more than a little while to come to grips with this.

We’re self obsessed, financially irresponsible and flick erratically between sexual repression and reckless hedonism. On the surface we’re ‘totally not cool’ with racism, bigotry, gender stereotypes or repression of any sort. Underneath it all we still harbour watered down versions of our parent’s views, doused heartily in layers of guilt and self reproach. That’s what the theorists say about us anyway, and probably our therapists too. We are Gen Y, and we are lost. Plus, we can’t keep our shit together.

Oh, and don’t worry, when I say ‘we’, I really mean me. It’s just easier to self-confess when you think everyone else has the same problems you.