I’m too old to be young and too young to be old, which feels like a very millennial sentence and also a medical chart in waiting.

I find it really weird that we still carry ourselves like we can close the bar, survive on two hours of sleep and eat whatever looked vaguely edible in a food court without consequence. Because in reality, one whiff of some of the foods I could eat after one club and before the second club now hits like a fire alarm in my chest. I used to inhale mystery grease like it was salad. Now it sends a distress signal to my entire torso, and I’m the one apologizing to my body like I broke curfew.