Generate a Stand-Up Routine

You ever notice how adulthood is just a series of tiny defeats you pretend are victories? Like, I finally got around to cleaning my apartment this weekend. Took me three hours. I stood there staring at the pile of laundry on my bed, thinking, "This is it. This is my Everest." I separated it into whites, colors, and "these are basically rags now." Victory number one.

Then I tackle the kitchen. There's this one dish from, like, two weeks ago. It's not even food anymore—it's a science experiment. I scrape it into the trash, and it fights back. Splats everywhere. Now I've got a new stain to deal with. But hey, progress! I load the dishwasher like I'm performing surgery. Make sure everything's facing the right way, because if that fork's upside down, the whole cycle's ruined. Rinse, repeat. By the end, my kitchen sparkles. I step back, hands on hips, feeling like a goddamn warrior queen. Then I realize I forgot to actually turn the thing on. Another hour wasted. Adulthood: zero. Me: still delusional.

But the real killer is trying to adult with technology. I signed up for this meal prep service because I'm "getting my life together." They send you recipes and ingredients in a box. Sounds perfect, right? First box arrives: salmon, quinoa, kale. I'm hyped. I follow the instructions to the letter. Chop this, sauté that. Set the timer on my phone. Twenty minutes later, dinner's ready. It looks exactly like the picture... if the picture was taken during a mudslide. The salmon's rubbery, the quinoa’s like gravel in a salad, and the kale? Tastes like I’m eating a lawnmower’s feelings.

I eat half of it anyway because I spent thirty bucks, and now I'm committed. Next morning, I’m bloated, gassy, staring at my reflection like, "This is what discipline looks like?" Nah, this is punishment. I cancel the subscription faster than you can say "regret." Back to DoorDash, baby. At least with that, my tiny defeats come with free delivery.

And don’t get me started on dating. I went on this date last week. Guy seemed normal online—engineer, loves dogs, cooks. We meet up, and he’s grilling me like it’s an interrogation. "What’s your five-year plan?" Bro, my five-minute plan is shaky. I say something vague about career growth. He nods, then launches into his. Owns a house, stocks portfolio, weekend hikes. Meanwhile, I’m thinking, "Cool, I own a succulent that’s somehow still alive."

By dessert, he’s talking crypto investments. I tune out, nodding like a bobblehead. Bill comes—he pays, thank God. Walks me to my car, goes in for the hug. I dodge like it’s a jump scare. Text him later: "Had fun!" Lie. He replies: "Let’s do it again soon." Panic. Block. Swipe right on the next profile: "Just here for the vibes." That’s me now. Vibes-only adulting. No plans, no quinoa, just surviving one tiny defeat at a time.

Thanks, you’ve been great!