If you have arrived into the cyberspace of this blog successfully, you will not only be reading this sentence, but will have also realised that the blog is sardonically/worringly/smugly/paradoxically entitled "I am 20 now" (not I am twenty now I hasten to add, because some smug bastard already beat me to that one, thanks for making me look like a grammarian's wet dream). I am not twenty now. After counting on the tips of my fingers how many days there are until I am twenty, I have arrived at the most probably wrong figure of eighteen days until the big one.
Why is twenty the big one, I hear you enquire? Twenty is the age I can no longer use the excuse of being a teenager to denote my various inadequacies- for example my inexplicable sleeping pattern, tripping over my dear house rabbit on a frequent basis and me being one of the laziest human beings to ever traverse this dear earth. Twenty is the decade I actually have to consider being gainfully employed for a survivable salary, whether I will ever be able to geographically relocate without singing songs to my parents down the phone, whether I can commit to another human being to the rest of my life (perhaps just a consideration) or whether I want to procreate enough to look after numerous spawn in worldly self sacrifice (definitely a consideration). Twenty is the age that teenagedom is cast aside in favour of an ill-fitting adult label, leaving the only song that has successfully, yet embarrassingly covered this ground as B-Dogz "I'm not a girl, not yet a woman."
But really, what exactly will change as a twenty year old? By this age, I had already planned to have written a ground breaking treatise on women's rights, be the star guest on Parkinson (these are old, old dreams) as well as have a column in a half-decent newspaper with the cult following akin to Charlie Brooker. There were also dreams of acting in A-List movies, dancing in the vein of a skilled ghetto street dancer and learning to sing less like a nasal-ridden Yorkshirewoman, but these dreams were ones of immaturity and must be cast aside. Alas, I have entered the realm of the everywoman! This year charters mediocre accomplishments such as successfully living in a shared house between six people, (potentially) passing the second year of my degree, getting a half-decent hairstyle and not kicking my mum in the face when she speaks to the aforementioned rabbit.
So, what will entering the twenties bring? As you can see above, hopefully bloody miracles. However, as you have probably have noted, probably more self-deprecating, self-centered spiel to narrate this "bildungsroman"of mine.
But really, what exactly will change as a twenty year old? By this age, I had already planned to have written a ground breaking treatise on women's rights, be the star guest on Parkinson (these are old, old dreams) as well as have a column in a half-decent newspaper with the cult following akin to Charlie Brooker. There were also dreams of acting in A-List movies, dancing in the vein of a skilled ghetto street dancer and learning to sing less like a nasal-ridden Yorkshirewoman, but these dreams were ones of immaturity and must be cast aside. Alas, I have entered the realm of the everywoman! This year charters mediocre accomplishments such as successfully living in a shared house between six people, (potentially) passing the second year of my degree, getting a half-decent hairstyle and not kicking my mum in the face when she speaks to the aforementioned rabbit.
So, what will entering the twenties bring? As you can see above, hopefully bloody miracles. However, as you have probably have noted, probably more self-deprecating, self-centered spiel to narrate this "bildungsroman"of mine.
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