For a few seconds on BART, I mistook the Daly City lights for a sea of candles in the darkness. It felt like the city that snakes through the hills was holding a vigil for something. And I wished I could be a vital part of it. I wished I could feel that deeply.


I was berated today by my coworker for not acting my age. At the ripe old age of 22, I merely go to school Monday through Wednesday, work Thursday through Saturday, and zone out on Sunday, my only free day of the week.

Here’s the issue: I very nearly live in San Francisco, a bustling city full of crazy, new experiences on every goddamn block, but I’m so tired most of the time that I am content to go home and watch movies with my roommates.

I should be exploring.
I should be trying something new every weekend.
I should be forging new friendships, or at least putting in the effort to strengthen the ones I have now.

Every time someone invites me to any sort of outing, I always have the perfect excuse to graciously opt out. My coworker asked me out for a drink and a show in the Mission, and all I could think about was how tired I was, and how loathe I would be to put up a front around people I didn’t know.

I am an ancient 22.

I may curse up a storm, but I don’t booze it up or smoke often. I’m a one-man kind of gal. You’ll never find me juggling the men. Debauchery was never really my thing, obviously.

Now, I don’t mean to say that’s what I think the life of a person my age entails. It just sort of feels like it. It’s always late nights and plenty of booze, and while those are a delightfully deadly combination with the right people, most of the right people for me are in the South Bay.

Regardless, I need to take more chances, whether I end up being hurt or feeling foolish. I need to act my age and dampen my hesitancy, catapult myself out into the unknown.

After all, I am ME. More likely than not, I’ll return from the heavens or the abyss with a grand old smile on my face.

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