My friends and I have a running joke where we describe certain people as “real people”: those who have jobs, houses, families, lives. Those who know what to say (and when to say it), how to dress, how to belong. Who lack all the awkwardness and somehow, feel at ease within their own skin. By that definition, I’m not a “real person” yet.

Likewise, I spent my teens idolizing my 20s yet simultaneously fearing them. I believed that your 20s were the beginning of the end — as if it were a cliff you are shoved off of, where all your whimsy and spontaneity and life drain away the moment you hit the ground, and you have no choice but to land a nine-to-five job and stay there forever. Yet that was okay, because once I hit 20, I would have it all figured out and somehow cross the threshold betwee

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