They let me out in public

Having had this nasty-ass coughing virus, I have had an excuse to sit on the couch playing mind numbing flash games till my eyes went red and the couch had a dent in the shape of  my arse.

However, this luxury could not continue, cos I had to go out of my house. I needed red bull, chips and strawberry jam. Apricot jam tastes heinous with peanut butter. I should know, I had two slices of it.

So, to the supermarket. I made a special effort, showered, put on a clean shirt - fuck, I even wore pants. I hadn't worn pants in a week.

My white-ass middle class suburb has a shitload of yummy mummy's around. They all have massive pushchairs for their spawn, which they park in the middle of the aisle so you can't get past. Then they chat to their friends about who-knows-what. Yoga pants probably. They were all wearing them.

I would have made some kind of snarky yet hilarious comment about the supermarket being their social highlight, but then I remembered I hadn't left my house in a week. I'm hardly the poster child for having a life.

I chose my checkout line poorly. It was staffed by Joan, who looks to be about 60, and is seriously the slowest checkout operator in the universe. I don't know how she manages it, but she takes three times as long as anyone else. It's as though she is actually in a parallel universe where time runs slower. And she insists on packing your groceries in plastic bags which she struggles to separate with her spitty fingers. I shudder.

The mummy behind me had a kid who looked about three. Old enough for it to be weird he's still in a pushchair, but young enough to stare straight into my soul for the five minutes it took for Joan to quit fucking around and take my money.

At first I tried to make him look away. Pulled scary faces, made serial killer eyes. Not happening. So then it was like a game, because I struggle with waiting patiently at the best of times. I made stupid faces, blew spit bubbles, anything to amuse this snotty little kid. And of course, right when I'm standing there scratching my armpit, mum looks up from her New Idea. Her jaw drops. I would blush if I had any sense of shame, but since I struggle with the whole "giving a shit" thing at the moment, I simply handed Slow Joan my money, and walked off, scratching my arse.

Yes, yummy mummy, in twenty-odd years your precious little baby could be just like me.

You have underestimated my laziness

I've had a nasty-ass coughing virus for the past week. The whole world should feel sorry for me.
When I complained to Mama on Sunday that I was too sick to cook dinner, she delicately pointed out -

"You know, if you lived by yourself you'd have to cook anyway, sick or not."

To which I replied "But if I was living by myself, I'd just have two minute noodles for dinner."

I neglected to tell her I'd likely be having two minute noodles even if I wasn't sick.

And no, I didn't cook dinner.

What is this, I don't even?

I'm the one all those pseudo-intellectual magazine articles warned you about.

Twenty five years old, Bachelor of Arts, unemployed. With makes me like approximately ten zillion other middle class kids who were promised that having a degree was the key to the kingdom. Any degree. Mine's in psychology. Really the only thing I learned was how to point out how sitcoms mangle mental illness, and the crucial fact I don't want to be a psychologist. I've been unemployed for four months. I've given up having job preference – I just want one which doesn't involve retail and does involve money.

My name's Sam.* I'm a boomerang baby – I live at home with my Mama, and she washes my socks. I like to think I'm doing her a favour by keeping her company, but really I'm just a reason she hasn't sold the house and gone travelling off into the sunset. Well, that and I inherited my organisational inability from her. She hasn't done a wardrobe cleanout in seven years.

What other scientifically framed but suspiciously inflammatory magazine articles do I represent?

Well, back in the ninties, there was much handwringing over the phenomenon of medicated kids. What were we doing, giving drugs to little kiddies who were just being boisterous? What was this, pills rather than parenting?

I've been on ADHD meds on and off since I was nine. Currently, I'm on. Hell, I'm on so many pills I rattle. Pills for the depression, the ADHD, the insomnia. I'm not sure if I even have a personality anymore, it's all side effects.

Right now, my life is flash games, job applications, and Tumblr. In the last two months I've applied for 30 jobs, and gotten none. Most of them don't even give you a form refusal. Especially the Aussie ones. Rude.

I know, the whole global economy is in the toilet. But BOOTSTRAPS you know. I could just go work in Christchurch. If I was some kind of builder. Which I'm not. No one in their right mind would let me near a nail gun.

It's all part of the lie, that having a degree is worth something. Anyone can get a degree – even morons. So on paper I'm indistinguishable from a moron. So any employer wants to know if you've been employed before, so they know you can show up and wear pants and generally not act like a moron in the workplace. Employers call this experience. Of which I have none.

My real distinguishing feature is that I look like a sixteen year old. With my luck medical science will declare this some kind of disorder and medicate me for it. Benjamin Button syndrome or something. This allows me to save money on public transport because I get child fare, but it's a pain in the arse when I want a beer.

I'm blogging my journey to adulthood, that blissful time when I'll somehow know how to keep my room tidy, not burn anything I cook, how to drive, and generally have my shit together. 

Yeah, I'm an amoral, obnoxious, apathetic twenty-something who has no idea how to be a real adult.

You wanna know what the ritalin generation are like as grown-ups? Well, here I am.

* Note to everyone who knows me, this is partly fictionalised. Obviously. Because I'm trying to preserve my anonymity, and I'll change names to protect the moronic innocent. But most of all because it makes a better story. To everyone else – the details may be fudged, but the ridiculous bits are true.