My feelings at 22


I dunno how Taylor Swift seems to know what to write in her songs. That girl is beyond brilliant and articulate. I am not a devoted Swifty but I can gather all the appreciation in the world and sprinkle it unto her with lovely little rainbows, twinkly stars and I wouldn’t even feel gay about it.

22 is such an awkward year of transition. It’s that phase wherein you’re not sure if you’re a fresh graduate or just trying to stay fresh. HAHA. By now aunts, uncles, cousins, friend of your friend’s mother, nephews, grandma’s are probably expecting to hear stories of you taking steps up at the corporate ladder, zooming up elevators and all the nitty gritty details of how you actually suck at work. I may be over analyzing, generalizing and offending but I guess it’s a given fact that only 5% of your college friends got lucky when they landed their first job in their dream company because apparently the real world is well, real. I promise that I try my best to be sincerely happy for my happy friends who are happy at their own respective work environments but my jealous bone is badly hurting somewhere and I end feeling confused and maybe, just maybe being a bitch about work in its basking glory.


But then again 22 is a year of sovereignty. You are unbounded by obligations of late night homeworks, super-mega annotated thesis, statistically impossible to solve mathematical equations and cum laude expectations from your parents. Nope, you’re working (with no assignments, thesis, mathematical equations and cum laude expectations!!!!!!!!!!!!) and you are getting paid. You get to go out with your friends and spill on fountains of liquor until you’re hugging your table because you act and feel like you need to be sober. You get to spend all your money on all 100+ editions of John Green’s books just because you wanna cry your heart out of brilliantly written books. You get to boss around your household proclaiming that you are finally earning hard cold cash- cash that might not even  be enough to supply your growing needs of being luxurious. Yeah, freeeeeeee!



And so we try to live up to our image of being 22 and independent. A wild hipster dreamer who has so many hopes and aspirations to fulfill. There’s this excessive desire of wanting to attain so many in one sitting that you end up tiring and isolating yourself out. It’s inevitable to feel the need to check off everything at your bucket list just so you could go dance around in joy and proclaim to your friends over Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Vine that yes, yes, yes indeed – I am living my life at 22. I think, oh alright, I feel, I actually do, I swear to the universe that I am happy.

It’s already July, we are halfway through our glory year. Breakfast at midnight, falling in love with strangers, oh oh and all the wonderful stuff we thought was our song would end very soon. Reasons and justifications of our melodramatic issues will eventually degrade and we will be but lonely.

Oh the joys and pains of  being 22. We all are convinced that we are happy, free, confused and lonely at the same time. We are a jar of feelings ranging from magical to miserable. I am in both conflicting ends of tearing my hair out and screaming I love you to every single person within my vicinity and as much as it’s downright hard to catch up- you get to share this glorious feeling of being at age (whilst having a popular song and singer) to back it all up.


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