Growing up is natural. But unless you’re wine or my porn collection, you’re probably getting worse with age. It’s just evolution or somethin’. The number one step to naturally ease into becoming that cynical, responsibility-ridden adult you once resented is to admit the 6 things I’ve reluctantly admitted to you below. If you resonate with four or more of these warning signs, please ask your doctor if you are healthy enough for Cialis.
I’m Becoming a Quality Over Quantity Beer Drinker
College Matt: Yo bro BEST DAY EVER! I can’t feel my face! Toss me another Natty!
Post Grad Matt: Excuse me, sir. Can you pour me one of those gluten-free beers from Colorado with the cool label? Preferably in a mason jar. Close my tab as well please because I have to be chipper for my dead-end job tomorrow morning. Oh and can you direct me to the Ladies’ Room?
It’s not lost on me that I’ve had a more pathetic decline than Aaron Hernandez. I don’t like pretending I care that the barley in the beer I’m drinking was grown on eco-friendly tofu soil. I don’t like pretending I care about the well being of polar bears. I don’t like that my dark beer tastes like motor oil. I don’t like that in the morning my mouth feels dryer than the conversations I have at the expensive, dim-lit bar I just came back from. I don’t like any of it. Now toss me a Natty! And a water!
P.S. What the fuck are hops? I thought white people weren’t supposed to have them.
I Have the Bounce Back Time of Greg Oden
Oh you wanna drink on Friday? Ya bro, I’m 99% in, let me just make sure I got 8 hours of sleep the previous night, haven’t drank in the previous 48 hours, and there is a solar eclipse that night.
It’s like Age robbed me of my Reset button. I have a few drinks on Wednesday and am sweating out wheat beer until Saturday. Just lingering and nagging like a high school girlfriend. And the day after: forget it. The trip from my bed to the bathroom feels like the Green Mile. Oh the pizza rolls in the oven have caught fire? Fuck it, the open flame feels good on my chills.
Friday 8:30 pm: Sorry I’m just getting back to you bro. My phone was slightly out of reach of my bed. Not going to be able to meet up with you for beers tonight but would love to grab a drink on Tuesday, March 3rd from 8-8:30 pm. Should be full strength and ready to POUND brew(s).
I’m a Fucking Calorie Counter
Not all the time, but I’ve done it. Recently. Like I’ve considered getting the Cobb Salad at Wendy’s after a night out. Didn’t get it, but I entertained the idea. The seal is broken. My drunk stomach would have been like “da fuck?” I’ve eaten veggie pasta and pretended to be full after a fleet of sushi. Almost started drinking the soy sauce. I ate dry kale the other night, on my own free will. Like it was a choice. A fucking leaf. Why do I do it? Because healthiness gives me more energy, so I can be unhappy for more hours of the day! This was never an issue when my metabolism had a little pep in its step, now it’s so goddamn lazy its collecting unemployment. Thanks for the bitch tits, Obama!! I think Vintage Sandler said it best back when his movies were funny:
“Ya when I was your age I could eat anything I wanted. Now, I have a chocolate shake and my ass jiggles for a week.”
This would have resonated a lot more if I could get past the fact that Sandler (Sonny) was having sleepovers with a 10 year old, but nonetheless, well said, Sonny. To the prepubescent boy you stole.
My Athletic Ability Went from 2012 RGIII to 2014 RGIII.
In the 2012 RGIII era, if you texted me “wanna ball?” I’d be on the court running suicides before you even left your dorm. Was an absolute nightmare to defend: Stockton vision with Malone’s strength. An absolute specimen. Now look at me. I can hardly grab the fuckin net. I was once frequently compared both athletically and physically attractiveness-wise to Tim Riggins. Now I’m the fat-armed punter. A scapegoat, if need be.
That’s it: starting tomorrow I’m going to inquire about a gym membership. Oh the weatherman’s calling for ‘wintery weather’? Fuck it, I’ll just do 26 pushups in my kitchen.
Netflix Over Hot Chicks
I witnessed myself saying in an uncharacteristic high-pitched voice “I really want to get into a show!” Which, when my balls become unsqueezed, translates to, “I want to watch someone else live life through the television to distract myself from my nagging responsibilities.” But nowadays this type of stimulation is how you stay current in conversation. I told a group of people I hadn’t listened to Serial and they looked at me like I killed the chick. Nonetheless, my roommates and I recognized relying on this cheap stimulation could be a dangerous trend so we floated the idea of regulating our TV watching in favor of more enriching things like conversation with humans or reeding books. Never set any guidelines though because the season finale of Homeland was about to start. Maybe tonight. Probably not.
My Drinking Buddies are Dwindling
Dear Former Drinking Buddies,
You were always a blast to get legless drunk with. I’m realizing I don’t know a thing about you because the only things we ever talked about we immediately forgot the next morning. Shit, we could have been real friends. Two ships passing in the night, huh?
Anyhoo, just wanted to sincerely thank you for being fun to be around, I fed off it. Just because I don’t know how to pronounce your last name or know if you have any brothers and sisters, doesn’t mean I don’t care about them! How is he/she/they doing anyway? Today I pour a little Michelob Light out for you, fallen soldiers. And then I’ll pour the rest out because it’s Tuesday and I already had my cheat day this week.
Thanks again, Drinking Buddy. I’ll continue to Like your Facebook posts.