I’m so old. I woke up this morning and, much to my surprise, I was 20. Twenty. Two-zero. I tried to raise my arm to check my phone and my shoulder squeaked like a garbage mouse. I got a text from AARP telling me I was too old. Some boss was texting me asking why I wasn’t at work—I don’t even have a fucking job. All the army recruiters read about my age in the paper, which I apparently read now, and moved on. I’m damaged goods. I lost so many friends today.
I can’t even eat solid food anymore. I’m 20! I went into the dining hall, and everyone was eating things like “chicken” and “bread,” meanwhile, I was drinking Malott soup with a straw. The Malott staff came up to me and asked if I was the next interim dean. All of my Instagram ads are for caskets now.
I’m so wise. I’m so fucking wise. My long, white beard almost touches the floor. It was stubble just yesterday. I can imagine ANYTHING. I know the answer to every question. I’m like if your college advisor actually knew what classes you’re supposed to take. But I’m so weak now. My bones are so brittle, and my knees are fucked (yes, they were already fucked but I was a teenager, so I could work through it).
I went to the store to get candles for my birthday cake, and they told me that numbers aren’t that big. They sent me out in a walker! I went to Brandy Melville, and they hit me with a stick. I hate being 20. I wish I was a teenager like in the days of yore. My life has changed so much since yesterday, which I now call yesteryear. All my music is just horns now.
My eyes are so sunken in that people tried to visit them in a submersible. My face is overrun with wrinkles. Everyone calls me “Jim” now. I tried to throw a party based on the nostalgia of being a beautiful, young teenager (19), but instead, all of my friends sat in a circle researching retirement homes as I sipped prune juice in the corner. I mourn the man that once was. I’m 20.
Nobody messages me on Grindr anymore.