It’s
a 11 pm on 11/11.
I
am supposed to be writing something important. To try and convince a client why
the use of AI is okay for the brand. Instead, I’m penning my second blog post for
the day. Probably my shadow self (Jung dodappa FTW) making up for all the othla
times I’ve manifested this year.
Anyway,
back to the point. Or straying away from it further. Wheeee…
Peter
Pan Syndrome.
According
to ChatGPT, Dr. Dan Kiley, who popularized the term in his 1983 book The
Peter Pan Syndrome: Men Who Have Never Grown Up, defined it as a condition
where adults exhibit emotional immaturity and avoid typical adult roles such as
career, financial management, and stable relationships.
Well,
nigga, does it feel good to hop jobs every 18 months with a matcha (or whatever
fruity fucking drink is in vogue that season) in hand ignoring the double text
from your situationship?
I
honestly threw up a little writing that sentence. It was probably the
undigested rum. Or the stale meat that pushed down the rum.
This
blog is an ode to the friend who did the same mistake I did 3-odd years ago. Fuck,
even two years go. Well, she’s young. And like all young people, is stupid and
will learn from her own mistakes. Surrogate mistakes never made a stable (wo)man.
What
defines a “young person”?
Rahul
Gandhi was trolled for being a “youth leader” at 40. He probably still is, idk.
I
get trolled for admitting I’m old at 35. People now take offense on my part for
being called old. I don’t give a damn. I’m just too old and tied of it all. Living
takes a lot of energy. I don’t have enough to spend it on being offended. You
do you, man. You do you.
Folks
of today (kids in the mid-30s who try to “embrace their inner child” and all
that nonsense) show the emotional maturity of a walnut. Unable to come to grips
with the void that opened up in the back of their amygdala when the clock
struck 12 on the third day of the 30th autumn they witnessed.
Something
shifts when you grow old. It’s a sudden, staggering shift. Like a chameleon
that’s just molted overnight.
Do
chameleons molt? Let’s assume they do.
Forever
running from “adult responsibilities”, which is basic bitch adulting, is just pathetic
and sad. Tyring to retain, reclaim and relive a time of nostalgia that’s long
gone by trying to recreate the feeling of listing (watching) to Britney Spears’
Toxic for the first time except it’s Dua Lipa wearing her crotch-hugging pseudo
swimsuit, with whatever song she’s got trending these days.
Look,
(wo)man. If you’re in your 30’s it’s your birth right to start every 345th
sentence with “Back in my days…”
If
you don’t then there’s something wrong with you.
I’ll
come back to this some day and write a proper post about my actual thoughts on
the subject. Until then… why did you even come this far? You’re either too old
or too curious. Both are recipes for disaster.
Comments
Post a Comment