Look, fucker, I don’t know what it is about our generation that forces us to believe that waking up before three in the afternoon and making plans in advance is utterly blasphemous, but texting or calling me at midnight and implying that I am lame for not going out is just - how do I put this?- stupid. No, not even stupid, because stupid implies a lack of intelligence. It is fucked up in grand proportions on a multitude of massive scales. I get it, twenty-something year old people are “supposed” to wake up at four in the afternoon, chow down Mountain Dew and Little Debbie’s, take a shower around six, play video games until eleven, and then enthusiastically make your way to your friends’ apartments or downtown to chill and “hang out” until five in the morning. Being nocturnal is like, so hip, man! But unlike you, I actually am a full-time student, have a job, oh, and something I like to call priorities - priorities that don’t involve me crawling out of bed at vampire hours and wasting my life away with Call of Duty and pancakes at some low rent diner halfway across town. Don’t get me wrong, it’s cool to hang out and have actual engaging conversations that just happens to go until the wee hours of the morning (when they do happen), but to purposely structure a life absent of vitamin D from the sun and one that involves a huge percentage of boredom and nothing to do but sit around and smoke pot and laugh like mentally challenged hyenas on crack because nothing is open at two in the morning is just…idiotic.
Babies, I get up between six to eight o’clock in the morning. I have four classes in a day. I check groceries for pea-brained customers. As an English major I am writing and reading constantly. I surf Craigslist during my spare time to look for a car. I do Taebo and run whenever I can to keep fit. Not to mention, I have to deal with my fair share of drama from my peers. By eleven o’clock at night, I’m tired. All I want is my bed. I’m not chugging down a 5-hour energy drink just so I can waste my time with you sitting at some douche’s apartment pretending to text on my phone because there’s nothing better to do. Really? No, let me ask you again: REALLY?
Get the fuck out of my face with that bullshit.
I don’t care if I am twenty-two years old. I’m going to bed. Peace.
