Yesterday was a great day. I turned 23 years old and my boyfriend took me out to a nice romantic dinner; the kind you see in TV shows that make it look like heels are a practical shoe for walking around Manhattan all day.
I wore white heels and a blue dress and gold dangly earrings and pink glittery eye shadow. He wore his best tailored suit. I was thoroughly wined and dined before we took a romantic stroll to the piers. It was chilly and I didn’t have a jacket so he let me wear his.
It was fricken awesome!
Guess what we talked about?
Burger King.
Sal and I sat there, in our best clothes, discussing in between bites of pita and babaganoush, how Burger King is considered a bottom-tier fast food restaurant when really it shouldn’t be because it basically invented chicken fries. Chicken fries are amazing.
That’s when all of my childhood ideas of being an adult came crashing down around me. I really thought that life as an adult would be consistently fancy, but it’s becoming super apparent that it’s not. And thank the Lord for that!
You’re telling me that I can talk about stupid things and still be an adult with her shit together? Hell yeah! This shit is awesome!
I just really don’t want to pay rent.
*Cue the Blink-182 song*
kiki 