Adulting is hard. Really, really freakin’ hard. And I don’t even own like a house or anything. Or have kids. Or a fish.
There are times, maybe a lot of times, that I want to be a recluse. And I’m not really sure what kind of recluse I want to be. I could go for the mountain man approach and live in a cabin far away from civilization. Maybe come to town once every few years to make sure that the local kids stayed scared of me. I mean, sure, there are some serious skills I would have to acquire, such as skinning an animal and making moonshine that doesn’t taste like rubbing alcohol cut with floor cleaner. But it might be worth it; lots of fresh air, mountains to climb, peace and quiet all around. But I have a thing about cutting small woodland creatures open, and even taxidermy has a tendency to freak me out, so maybe mountain recluse wouldn’t be my best bet.
Which means I need to make a whole lot of money. I will build a cottage with a really high stone wall around it. There will be an iron gate to stop people from entering. A video monitor will allow me to see who is trying to disturb me, and if they are baring cake or wine, I will let them in. I will live with my books and cats and never ever go to the grocery store again. I will only go out to the theatre when it is time for me to perform or to a bar to see my friends.
Which once again kills my dream of being a recluse. But the high stone wall would be useful in a zombie apocalypse, so let’s re-think again.
I want to live in a country house with a personal assistant who does my shopping and general adulting, such as dealing with all customer service representatives for me. I will write books, drink wine with friends and perform. I will also own cats and take them on walks with me on their color coordinated leashes.
Basically, I want to be a crazy cat lady with friends, wine and a career. And my husband. And a personal assistant.
Adulting is hard.