Hand-me-down underwear or something.

My sister wrote a blog post that had something to do with hand-me-down undies and how the lack of cartoon characters front and center is an indication of adulthood.

The other day I was folding clean laundry while talking to my roommate.  I am not a subtle person and made no attempts to hide my underwear.  My roommate is not a subtle person either and made no attempts to hide his judgment.

“Is that your underwear?”


“What are you, 12?”

“What are you, roommate, celibate?  Ain’t you nevvuh seen no pannies buhfoah?!?”

(I have a very strong accent irl)

Clearly, from this conclusive vague anecdotal evidence, my underwear does not make me stop and go “gosh, I guess I am really an adult now.  That kind of sucks.”  Mostly, the only thing that does make me stop and contemplate adulthood is the constant mess that follows me wherever I go.  At least once a day I survey my surroundings and think to myself, “Wow, there is a lot of shit all over everything.”

And then I think to myself, “I wonder how long I can go without cleaning it up before someone else gets fed up and does it for me.”

And THEN I have the ultimate realization that those days are over and gone – the realization that my roommate’s birthday was 3 weeks ago and nobody else has even moved the bowl I made the icing in, which still has rock-hard icing inside – which still tastes so super yummy (don’t make that face at me, you cake-hating party pooper).  The realization that my bathroom trash can is overflowing, and unlike the communal trash in the kitchen, nobody else will notice and take care of it.  (Except maybe Tom?  Note to self, ask Tom if he wouldn’t mind taking out the bathroom trash.)  And perhaps most horrifically, the realization that if I want my fancypants clothes dry-cleaned (and it’s not even really an issue of “want” because I am, after all, an adult, and I have to wear classy shit a lot of the time), I have to take them to the dry-cleaners myself.  AND THEN I HAVE TO REMEMBER TO PICK THEM UP LATER.  ALSO I HAVE TO PAY FOR THEM.  ALSO THE LADY WHO OWNS THE PLACE DOESN’T KNOW MY MOM AND WON’T GIVE ME A 10% DISCOUNT FOR IT.

And just to clear up any confusion, I am gross, but I don’t think I ever had any hand-me-down underwear.

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