Prominent Queen est. 1995

A sarcastic personal diary

Do you know what can be more terrifying than not having a date?

I would say, “being 27.” I know that it’s not yet 30, but still, I can’t help but freak out. It doesn’t help that I live in a city with one of the lowest mean ages in the country. It is hard, to say the least. Every time I ran into someone, they would always greet me by mentioning their age.

“Femke, 24”

“Koen, 22”

“Rupert, 20”

“Fries, 18”

“Karlina, 24”

It often freaks me out how a lot of them don’t even know what “High School Musical” is. If they do like Kpop, they probably don’t know who TVXQ, T-ara, or Super Junior are. All they knew was BTS, and how they would say, “But K-pop rose to prominence in the last 5 years, correct?”

It is true that many of them are more concerned with global social issues such as feminism, racism, colonialism, and even economic inequality. Still, some part of me had to eat in jealousy at how “being different” or “a theater kid” equates to “being cool” now, rather than being an alien to society.

That’s not all. I’m also envious of how stress-free their lives are. It’s made even more complicated by the fact that the majority of people I’ve met in the last 1.5 years are not from the country where I was born. My social media feeds emphasized “slow adulting” or “being okay” for “late.” They asked me to calm down and be less restless. How could you be when, your whole life, you had been programmed to be “not okay” if “you are left behind?” Here’s an analogy: if you’ve spent your entire life being trained to be the front-line crusader, how could you suddenly learn how to be the aide (when your inner soul has been nurtured to enjoy people dying)? Nowadays, my social media dictates that you can always begin again. But how?! It’s like being a grandma who has been paralyzed on her catheter her entire life, only to be told, “You can walk, you know?” You would’ve thought, “Shit, how should I move my feet?”

I am pathetic, perhaps. Maybe I just don’t want to try? I feel harsh when I know it’s not entirely true. I want to run—even faster than anyone can imagine. I love being free. Yet, at the same time, remembering that I am always in danger of being poor and helpless terrifies me. Like I said, maybe I am just pathetic. Or, maybe I am just not white. I don’t know which one.

Nevertheless, I like sitting down, drunk on my own dreams for the future. All of them seem real, and thus, sometimes, I wonder, “Am I on psychedelics?” (The answer is no because I want to use my pharmacy degree in some capacity, even just a bit.)

Alright, there you have it. In 2 weeks, I will be 25-yes, if you count that 2 years of my life were thrown away in the pandemic- and I am freaking out. No, it’s not because I am jealous of my friends’ weekly newsletter on engagement rings, buying houses, birthing child(ren), travelling far, and so on. (Okay, in all honesty, yes, a little bit). Yet, in the bigger picture, I am just freaking out because, just like Jonathan Larson said, “Stephen Sondheim was 27 when his first Broadway play was launched.”

My mother had also been married for a half year by the time she was 27. My dad had served in the army for about 5 years. My never-stop-showing-off aunties had had two children. Kylie Jenner will be the richest person more than once, in about 4 years. Saorise Ronan had been in the most exquisite Hollywood films. Oh, crap, it’s true. Well, by 27, my mother’s most beloved younger brother had been dead for 5 months. My older brother? He didn’t even make it a week. Colonel Sanders? I am not sure where he was. Alan Rickman was also still stuck in an advertising career (until he was 29; if this were my story, I’d only have two years left!). King Charles was—well, never mind him. He would still have to wait for another 40 years or so. 

So, does that make me crappier or luckier? I don’t know. I fucking don’t. All I know is that I am freaking out, and I can’t tell anyone about it.

The pessimists would say, “Meh, 27 is overrated anyways.”

But the optimists would say, “Look on the bright side,” which also would make me sick to my stomach.

So, what does this writing mean?

A rant, most likely. Yes, exactly like Karen’s ranting. Gosh.