ChocMilk: On being 25.

I have been on this Earth for exactly 25 years, 1 month and 13 days. At this point in my life, I would have made a serious impact on those around me, my career and my  environment, right? Right? Wrong.

Fresh out of high school, with my optimistically pink-hued shades and training bra, the future I had envisioned for myself was like something from a prime time show about a successful 25ish female with spidery eyelashes, high heels and a glamorous air that wreaked of romance and mystery. Truth is, I would have been utterly dismayed with that kind of life, and even though my glamorous airs are purchased and smell like Escada, I’d rather have it this way than another. I may not have a prime-time worthy life right now, but , after careful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that knowing what I know now might have made me considerably more boring.

Things I would have never predicted to happen when I was 17, but did.

I can’t watch porn.
Let me just get this out there, I have never watched porn with company, I can’t even watch a sex scene without feeling the need to disguise the fact that my cheeks are getting flushed with embarrassment. So, on the listless Sunday that Nick suggested we watch some (boys, I don’t get it) I was hyperventilating under my rapidly warming cool exterior.

Me: (thinking) “What do I do in this situation? Look sexy? Do I even know what that looks like? I need a mirror. ZOMG that guy looks douchebaggy. Do I really have to watch him do that? There’s no way those could be real”

Me to Nick:  “There’s no way those could be real”

Nick: “He seems to like them”

That summarises the whole 5 minutes I spent watching porn. As is fashionable, women of my age are supposed to be ‘sexually liberated’ and I thought I had crossed that line the moment I bought condoms from a garage at 2am. NO. They don’t show that part in Sex and the City. I feel inadequate. I should watch some porn.

After 25 years, I still know jack-shit about relationships.
Post hight school, I got into a hot and heavy tête-à-tête with a to-be-accountant. He was the alpha to my beta, the present value that would result in favourable time value of money outputs, regardless of the inflation constant. I was with him for 5 years and barely escaped impending nuptials with my sanity intact. I needed to grow up before I decided to have 2.5 children and a joint bank account. But, even after all this drama, I will never be prepared for new love affairs and I’ve decided that I prefer it that way.

I’m too old for this shit.
Rather, I’m ecstatic that I don’t have to do this, ever again:

• Two minute noodles
• Inflatable mattresses
• Justin Beiber
• Loud ‘woooo’ noises
• Glitter anything
• Scrapbooking

It’s okay to say no.

I am not my degree
When I decided on my career choice, I was 17. I liked the Backstreet Boys and belly tops. What does that girl decide to do with her life? Study finance! Obviously. Oh, my misguided youth… I don’t regret my career choice at all, I just wish I had a bit more exposure to the choices available. I am not my degree any more than blogging makes me a successful writer. It’s never too late to re-invent, it’s the whittling down on choices that’s the mind-bending part.

On winning the lottery
As opposed to several years ago, I won’t spendit all on one massive shopping spree. Also, actually buying a lottery ticket is imperative to winning it.

I don’t want to take over the world anymore
I’d have to wear lycra and come up with a name, an evil laugh and group classifications for my army of minions. Actually, I do have all of the above, except for the lycra.

lastly,

Writing about my personal life isn’t as tacky as I thought.
In fact, I’m finding this rather therapeutic

I still feel like I’m a few inches too short to get on the rollercoaster ride, but, at least I wear big-girl bras now!

Question: Why is the O before the C? Shouldn’t it be in alphabetical order? And if it was ‘COD’ instead of ‘OCD’, would it be too fishy?

I spent 3 hours organising my iTunes yesterday,  I could have went on all day to be honest. I used to think that I do things like this because I don’t have a life but recent developments in my somewhat tranquil existence has led me to believe that I may have a slight case of OCD. You see, I enjoy this. I enjoy sorting things so that they slot into their correct categories, typing out the track names when they’re not there, scouring the internet for information to make my methodically compiled lists more meticulous.

Scary innit?

As I was searching for album art to link to the albums so that it makes my iTouch look more pretty (why don’t the cd making people put the digital version of the album cover on the cd? don’t they realise that there are people like me that EXPECT things like that to be readily available?), I came across this:
 

Notice something there? Who in the world has time to do things like this? What kind of sick pleasure do they get out of it? People that make things like this ^ have no lives. What is surprising is that there are so many parodies of album covers out there. Parodies I shall not post on my blog, if I do that, it means that I support and endorse said people with no lives which means that I in turn have no life, thus creating a sour vicious cycle of self contempt that I may or may not take out on a poor album cover.

I do have a life. A life with OCD.

OCD is not a disease, its an organised art.

So there.

People love me.

So I write one blog about a famous person and suddenly I’m more popular than Paris Hilton after she flashed her girl bits at poor photographers.

Funny that.