I was feeling particularly negative today so I started writing a list of complaints before my art history lecture began.
My hair gets greasy after one day.
I can’t find clothing suitable for how tall I am and how long my limbs are.
Concerts are too expensive and usually too far away.
Right now, I can’t even afford a cup of coffee.
My elbows are eternally dry but I can’t accept it.
I’m a terrible, terrible liar.
Living in NYS is way too expensive for anyone.
Unrequited affection. Always.
I can’t afford to get my best friend a birthday present this year.
I have very short eyelashes.
I’m a failing bisexual in that I don’t attract women and I don’t attract men.
My room is such a mess that I can’t even find the motivation to begin cleaning it.
Waiting for prescriptions takes too long.
Also, the pharmacy I went to for years no longer exists and instead of being able to make small talk with Frank the Pharmacist, I have to interact with cookie-cutter girls who came straight out of college.
I. Gained. All. The. Weight. Back.
So, none of my pants fit anymore.
People keep reproducing.
My pillows are flat.
Headphones always break after a month. Always.
There aren’t any bananas in my house.
I don’t retain scientific or historical information, as much as I want to.
I will eventually need glasses.
I lost my most treasured piece of jewelry in a Target dressing room nearly three years ago and I’m still not over it.
I can’t just go out and buy shoes even when I need them because my feet surpass normal female shoe sizes.
I don’t look good in flannel, despite how much I try.
There is still snow on the ground.
Nothing helps a sore throat.
Checking my email makes me anxious.
My last name isn’t the original last name.
It costs money to renew your license.
Sunscreen doesn’t even work.
I don’t know a second language. Thanks, America.
When you get older, no one offers to make you soup when you’re sick or tuck you into bed or play with your hair or anything comforting.