Published 13th December 2020 by The Indiependent.
Love Letters To My 20s: A Fortnightly Column On The Stigma Surrounding Our Twenties.
“Suddenly, you’re 21 and you’re screaming along in the car to all the songs you listened to when you were sad in middle school, and everything is different- but everything is good.” – Unknown.
On Wednesday, I turned the big 21.
I spent the day eating Ferrero Rochers, and enough vegetarian biryani to convince anyone that I was soon to be entering my third trimester. I also took the time to revel in prancing around my Dad’s house in my pants (tinny of Kronenburg in hand) to ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now’ by The Smiths.
As is to be expected when humming along to the graduate-appropriate lyrics “I was looking for a job and then I found a job, and heaven knows I’m miserable now”, I did quite a bit of reflecting. Twenty-one seemed to have crept up on me unlike any of my previous birthdays, where I had counted down to the 9th of December from six months in advance. I was convinced that…
