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.