June 2, 2014
By now, the post-grad betches have come to the rude awakening that the second you leave college, you’re no longer in your prime. Face it: you went from running the campus to running your boss’s Starbucks order, and you can’t step foot in a frat house or the bar you always used to go to in college without feeling like fucking Yzma from The Emperor's New Groove.
Whereas you used to spend your time talking shit about Carolyn Kraft’s snaggle tooth and complaining about the weather—okay I mean you still do those things, you’re just a lot more cranky about it—now you spend time despairing that you’ve hit the ripe old age of 23 and bitching about “the youths.”
“Can you believe Dawson is 35? God, I’m fucking old.”
“WTF, BSB is 19 years old! I swear, Quit Playin’ Games with My Heart came out yesterday.”
“Pluto hasn’t been a planet in 5 years!”
UGHHH, I’M LIKE SO OLD!!!
Never mind the fact that you’re completely exaggerating. Just like betches often bond over mutual hatred of shit, complaining about how old you are is a great way to form a new friendship (if you’re into that) or to strengthen existing bonds with your besties.
“Do you guys remember Recess?”
“Omg yeahhhh I love Recess!! The Ashleys were like the OG betches.”
Complaining that you’re old is best done in front of the computer, optimally while you’re looking at a Buzzfeed list called “15 Things 90s Kids Are Going Through Now,” “57 Things From the 90s You Almost Forgot Existed,” or “This List About Kids Growing Up Today is Going to Make you Feel So Totally Old.” Fucking Buzzfeed, thank you for feeding into my hypochondria and making me hyper aware of my mortality.
Another culprit of making you feel extremely old is #tbt, which rears its ugly head every single damn week to remind you that you’re no longer 6 years old and cute as a button. Sure, you’re in your early 20s and hot af now, but that’s beside the point. “Whatever happened to the good old days when we had nap time and my mom would make me a Mr. Snack Face when I came home from school?!” You find yourself cyber-wailing to all your facebook friends, accompanied by a few pathetically nostalgic hashtags #thosewerethedays #takemeback #ineednaptime.
While it is a real tragedy that there’s no such thing as company mandated nap time (unless you live in Europe, Europe: 1 ‘Murica: 0), you can only wallow in self-pity about how “old and washed up” you are before you just sound completely ridiculous. I’ve been keeping a timer and the official limit is precisely 3 minutes and 46 seconds.
The remedy: make a visit to your betchy grandma. It’ll only take 5 minutes of hearing her complain about back pains and blabbing about how Edna broke her hip and is in the hospital for you to realize that cutting down your raging from 4 nights a week to 2 times a week is definitely not a sign that you’re getting old.