Now that I’m nearly half-way through my thirties, I feel comfortable advising people on how to deal with their twenties. A little distance, a little wisdom, and let’s be honest I’ve been too lazy to even think about it until now: yeah, I’m ready to talk about my twenties. How do I boil down my twenties into a single, marketable phrase you crazy, hazed twentysomethings will remember? Thusly: don’t buy a snake.
When you’re in your twenties you’ll see the snake and think, “Wow! That’s cool! A snake! I wanna snake! Hey, Dollface, (or whatever the kids call their girlfriends these days) should I get a snake? Hellz-to-the-yeah I should!” I’m sure there’s a few wiggity-wiggities in there as well.
Don’t buy the snake.
The damn thing will live on through your twenties and will keep living when you’re in your thirties and dollface has left you for the guy who didn’t buy a snake in his twenties. Then you’re the single guy with a snake. Not cool.
You see, the things you love in your twenties: they’re not the things you’ll love forever. They’re the things you’ll pull out of the closet. You’ll blow the dust off ‘em and laugh at how important these things were to you. And that’s the best scenario. Worst-case scenario it’s something you’ll shove back into the closet and hope no one ever sees it.
Or you’ll be paying alimony checks to it.
Or child support.
Or buying topical creams for it.
Or you’ll be waiting patiently for the thing to die.
I need to go shopping for frozen mice this weekend. The thing’s gonna outlive us all.
To any twentysomething who has chosen conveniently to ignore me, interested in a snake? Free to a good home. And by that I mean a home. Any home.