Moving into your first real apartment with friends feels a lot like playing “house”. Except for the fact that the food isn’t plastic, the dishes actually have to be washed, and no one gets to be the dog. (Which, if we’re being honest, was the best part of the game.)
I’m nineteen now, which means I have officially survived my first year of being an “adult”, but for some reason I’ve never felt more like a terribly confused, little kid. Maybe this is because the last time I attempted to vacuum resulted in a glitter explosion in the living room. Or because I recently dyed all of my white sheets blue after overlooking a sneaky navy t-shirt in the washer. And, trust me, the list goes on.
But, surprisingly, I’m not actually upset about this.