Sell me whatever I need to age gracefully.

After feeling pretty lackluster in an emotional wave of lame-itude that I totally should have seen coming given my return to routine after spending days drinking and dryhumping some of the most inspiring twenty-somethings I’ve ever had the chance to meet in a city filled with neon lights and whore cards, I’m starting to feel a little more like myself again. Meaning, suburban badass.

Yes that’s right. I’m finally beginning to scoop myself out of the pit of despair (our tv room) where I convinced myself that anyone worth knowing and anything worth doing is happening anywhere but where I am and if I could only be in any of these other places with any of these other people, I’d be able to do big things but ALAS AND WOE IS ME I AM NOT AND THEREFORE CANNOT DO ANYTHING WITH MY LIFE AND SWEET CHER JUST TAKE ME TO THE OTHER SIDE NOW FOR I HAVE FAILED YOU IN EVERY WAY.

IF I COULD TURN BACK TIIIII-nevermind.

Tragic, I know…but at least since Vegas I’ve been able to be a mess in Marc Jacobs and Hugo Boss. That’s right, bitches – even at my worst, I’m still better than the best of most.

But tonight, instead of coming home and collapsing in my own self-defeat, I cranked a good playlist on the iPod and took the dachshunds for a walk around the lake in the sunshine…mainly because the newf was tired of watching me scroll through pictures of Vegas Ben who is essentially just like regular Ben minus a few drinks, accessories, and Little J’s slut eyes.

So, I’m walking along to great Start of Summer tracks by Modest Mouse, Bloc Party, the Ting Tings and any other artist I could find that would contribute to a downward hipster spiral wherein I start thinking I can pull off skinny jeans and scarves and ironic flannel (not so ironic in Canada) and bicycles and many other things that go against my genetic code, and all of a sudden I start believing that you know what? Maybe I CAN bring the cool without the aid of long-term intoxication and the unwavering support of my internet best friends.

And right there, somewhere around the perfect combination of heightened confidence and soaring vulnerability I went to swap out the playlist to one of my iPod’s Genius because-Apple-knows-you-better-than-you-know-yourself Playlists where it magically arranges my music into happy little categories like Indie Rock, Urban Hip Hop, and the one that totally and utterly ruined my flow and sent me slinking back to my household of shame:

Teen Pop.

Oh! Oh! OH! OH?

And Teen Pop 2.

Yes. Apple decided that my music selection merits not one but TWO Genius Playlists dedicated to the interests and preferences of middle schoolers. And the worst part? Every single song on them is my jam. And not even like my nostalgic tenth grade jam…like…my jam TODAY. Have I ever told you that I know the choreography to He Wasn’t Man Enough? Because I definitely don’t. Let’s never speak of it again.

Needless to say I’ve killed myself since I’ve gotten home twice and you can all expect to never hear from me ever again because while I’m only turning 25 in a week or so, I’m actually a 45-year-old pretending to be 19 and it’s all very sad and confusing and bound to get only worse.

[Photo Credit:Phil H]