Twenty-five.

So, today marks 25 years of Barbara.

And I would be lying if I said that I’m not freaking out.

Because I am freaking out. Like A LOT.

Like most of America did when Trump got elected. Or when Alabama banned abortion.  So, like a whole lot.

Like no offense to myself or anything, but what the fuck am I actually doing?

Because when someone asks if I have a plan? I repeatedly answer with: I don’t even have a pla.

Can you relate already?

Apparently it’s called quarter life crisis, as we millennials have to put a label on fucking everything.

So yeah. FUN TIMES EH?

To be honest, I had this very great idea about how this post is going to written. I was gonna get ballons with numbers 2 & 5 and buy a random cupcake with a little candle that’d be thrown away later and I’d wear a dress and write this cute text about twenty-five things you should deffo do before turning 25 and then I’d tell you how amazing it is to be a very functional adult and have your shit together.

THE TRUTH IS THOUGH, I don’t want to lie to you. And I don’t want to put more pressure on you. Because I don’t have my shit together. My definition of adulting is being able to power through a very bad hungover on a working day and eating green veggies at least once a week. And not needing to sell my eggs for money if I want a good night out and making sure that my mum get’s daily updates on my life, otherwise that woman thinks I’m dead and my body is on the very bottom of Thames river. Also, not dying and having my body thrown to the very bottom of Thames river.

I’d never lie to you, because life is hard. But if you’re in your twenties life is even harder.

Because, honestly, twenties are shit.

Apparently you should be having the time of your life but you’re constantly stressed. First you get stressed about graduating and all the uni shebang. Then when you finally think you’re on track you get all stressed because you can’t find a job.

Or at least a job that doesn’t require seventy-eight years of experience although they’re looking for young people to hire. And then you’re stressed over the fact you get paid peanuts and you can barely afford living with other six people in shitty house and you quit your job.

And of course you are all stressed again about finding a new job. But you lucked out and you find one.

And you move flats. But not without stressing over the fact that your rent costs a small fortune if you want a room with a window and decent sized bathroom with hot water.

And you’re always stressed about your sex life. Because it is hard to date when you barely have time to breathe. Or shower. Also it is freaking hard to find someone who gets you and you don’t have to be fake with, and who isn’t selfish in bed and wants to do Netflix and chill rather than just sex. And when you do come across a decent lad, or you know a lady, they fuck it up by putting their parts into other people’s bodies and then you’re stressed again, well rather sad and mad, and you swear you’re never dating again, but you ain’t vowed for celibacy. And then you go on dating apps and unwillingly turn into a little bit of slut, but at least you are safe, and pleased.

And you finally have time to go out with your friends without a feeling that you should be searching for a future father of your imaginary child every time you exit the house.

But then you get stressed because some of your friends decided they are not your friends anymore because they are pretentious little shits, but you get over it faster than Khloe Kardashian got over all of Tristans cheating, because you are better off without fake people in your life.

But then again, you are persistently tired as fuck. And you’re always feeling like a fraud because you can’t be rude to Karen from office, who is middle-aged, hates millennials and isn’t getting any.

And everybody always thinks you’re a upset because you’re young, that you are loud because you’re young, that you are politically naive because you’re young and that you get easily annoyed because you’re young.

AND you can’t tell everyone to fuck off because half of the time, even you are not sure what the fuck is wrong with you and you are too busy to figure it out.

To busy because you need to get a proper amount of sleep, and hydrate, go to gym, reply to all gazillion Whatsapp chats (mostly audios, that you firstly have to listen to), make time for self-care so you don’t burn out, eat your suggested 5 a day and catch up on podcasts (mostly about adulting).

And what pisses the fuck out of me is the fact that even when I do all this, when I eat my avocado on toast, and do yoga and call my mother and cross off all the things off my to-do list I still feel like I should be running a marathon, or buying a house, or popping out a child or two, or should be a CEO of my own company and I get anxiety attacks.

Our society puts so much pressure on miΓ¬llennials these days that if you’re not on Forbes 30 under 30 list, what are you even doing with your life Barbara???

Like, why aren’t you climbing Mt. Everest or have seven million followers on Instagram?

I’ve been stressing over all this shit for too long. And do you know what? I’m done wasting my time. I’m done convincing myself that I’m missing out and that I should be something I’m not.

It all cool to dream that you’re the next Kylie Jenner, but if your sister does have a sex tape, chances are it’s more likely going to end up on a dodgy website rather than with a multi-million contract.

It’s time for real talk now.

Keep working hard. Keep being passionate about the things you love and don’t let anyone tell you, you can’t do it. Whatever it is. Because you are capable. Because you can be more than Kylie, and Kendall and whoever.

And it is ok to live on a budget, in a crappy apartment and have crappy sex life at the moment. As long as you’re doing everything you can to change that. As long as you don’t settle for less than you deserve. As long as your self-pity days don’t last longer than an actual neccesity. And you can switch from *can’t fucking adult today* days to *I got this shit * days.

It’s not easy but you got it babe. Sometimes you just have to give yourself the pep talks.

Like:β€œ Hello, you are a bad ass bitch! Don’t be sad! You are doing great! Love you!β€œ

AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, stop fucking comparing yourself to other people.

JUST. DON’T. That ain’t healthy. I know you will still do it from time to time because I do, but don’t. Stop being jelaous of other people. They also worked hard to get to the top (or you know, their sister cashed their sex tape really well).

Stop thinking of failure. Stop crying because someone has Cartier love bracelet and you have Pandora. Stop beating yourself up because someone goes to Hawaii twice a year and you never left Europe. Stop. It.

Truth is. Nobody is as succesful as Instagram makes them look and nobody is as pretty as filters make them seem.

The only healthy and worthwile comparison is you yesterday vs you today.

You are healthy. You are smart. You are loved. You are not related to Trump. You are twenty-something and your tits are still perky. Life is great even though sometimes you shower with ice cold water and have hummus for breakfast, lunch and dinner because you’re broke. You are actually living your best life, because you are living. And this rollercoaster you are on my dear, it is only going up.

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