An Open Letter To
Your Quarter-Life Crisis
DEC. 10, 2012
Dear [x],
I’d like
to know how many weary souls bogged down by a plague of First World Problems
have contributed to this sorry image:
I. Would.
Like. To. Know…!
Just how
many misguided youths gazing into the glowing abyss of their MacBook screens
have sought guidance from our great internet oracle.
Sitting
in a room, solo. Lost in thought. Feeling wretched, dejected.
[x]! Has this been YOU?
If you’ve
ever thought for a second that you were alone in thinking you are lost,
confused, discouraged, not good enough, or any combination thereof, LET THIS BE
EVIDENCE TO THE CONTRARY, [x]!
Such is
the plight of our generation. Not that this class of confusion is reserved for
the young — surely some older, wiser individuals contributed a query or two to
this crude sampling of collective consciousness.
But for
pity’s sake, do not let the Cult of the Quarter Life Crisis define you.
Define YOU, [x],
you magnificent bastard, you.
You were
drunk one evening and [y] sat down beside you, lighting a cigarette.
Half-conscious though you were, you remember the keen poignancy in his voice
very well, because it struck you at the time and you didn’t quite understand
why.
What was
poignant, was that he asked you, with complete, raw, vulnerable sincerity:
“[x], do
you know What You’re Doing With Your Life?”
And you
didn’t think twice, spitting back in a flash:
“Not in the
slightest, [y]. Do you?”
A pull,
followed by a careful exhale. “Not a clue.”
And that
was the conversation. But the conversation isn’t what’s significant here, [x].
Your (typical) internal monologue:
HE’S GOT HIS SHIT ALL FIGURED OUT. I WISH IT WAS SO SIMPLE FOR ME.
HOW DOES HE DO IT. HE JUST GOT LUCKY. HE’S JUST SMART. HE HAD SOMEONE HELP HIM.
HE IS THAT AND HE IS THIS. I’M NOT LIKE THEM. THEY HAVE SOMETHING I DON’T.
And to
that, I say, bollocks.
In the
words of Cake, [x]: Learn to buck up, and, more importantly,
Shut the
fuck up.
Remember
[z] and her open-mouth laugh, radiating with life and creativity, who you
thought for sure would “go places” after high school?
Just as
lost as you, [x]. She yelled at me from the kitchen the other day to pipe down
while she was churning out cover letters.
What I’m
saying, [x] — lovely little [x] — is that you are not alone. In this seemingly
never-ending quest for your place in the sun, you are among kindred spirits.
No one
has it figured out. Everyone is fighting their own demons.
Years
from now, when you look back to the nights you sat together, dirt poor but rich
with vitality and camaraderie, you will miss it.
But
today, shut your laptop and reach out to those friends instead of sitting
alone, brooding.
You can
thank me later.
Very
truly yours,
[a] 
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