Punctuality

     If there is one thing with which I have been cursed my whole life, besides these damned good looks, it is my propensity for lateness. I am never on time. And I am definitely never early. The last time I was early for something was my birth. I go to bed too late, I get up too late, I show up to work late, and in school, when I showed up, I showed up late.
     I hate having to sleep. Maybe I'm alone on this, but I never look forward to being unconscious for 8 hours. If it didn't devastate my body's immune system, affect my metabolism, and put me at risk of chronic illness and negative psychological effects, I'd like to sleep maybe 4 hours a night. But instead, I put it off until I can no longer put it off. I even procrastinate going to sleep. Instead, I prefer to spend my time on the computer, watching videos of cats and writing inflammatory comments on youtube, or reading fake news. If I could sleep for only 4 hours, think of all that I could get accomplished.
     Following this logic, I should be waking from the burden of slumber once I have put in the obligatory 8 hours. Today, I woke up at 11:14 AM. To even type AM is a stretch, because I remember eating lunch at 11:30 when I was in high school. I slept for 10 hours last night. This matutinal battle has wreaked havoc on my ability to adhere to the time and attendance policies of the jobs at which I worked. At my last job, I worked as a Service Professional for a company offering experiential marketing as an employee or card member benefit (read: call center). Not of my own accord, I no longer work at this company. During my exit interview, before being escorted outside the building by the HR manager, it was quoted that I had a total of 42 documented instances of tardiness. Forty-two. Fighting off the peculiar sense of pride for having made it 8 months before getting terminated, I vowed to rid my life of my old ways..
     I currently work for a well-known retail store. Aside from still working at a retail store at age 26 (and no, not in any sort of management position), I have since made the adult decision to try to avoid being late for work. This is not to say I haven't had my share of close calls. One year ago, I received my final warning for being late too many times. I would be fired if I were late even once more within a 90 day period. Fearful of losing my profuse retail salary, I started setting 6 or 7 alarms each morning to ensure I woke up on time.

     I awoke each day instantly terrified that I may have overslept. I imagine it's the same feeling you get the moment you realize you've misplaced your baby, but then you realize you don't have a baby. It probably took years off my life, but it worked. Upon making it 3 months without being late-- and by that I do not mean I was on time, but rather within the 6 minute grace period after the start of my shift-- I was proud, indeed. I exclaimed to my manager, "I did it! I wasn't late for 3 months straight!" To which he responded, "Congratulations on doing your job."
     Still, I cannot find within me the ambition to arrive at work early, nor the foresight to get things done further in advance so that the last 20 minutes before heading out aren't an avalanche of showering, eating, lunch preparation, and face moisturizing. My favorite move is when my manager tells me I'm late for my shift, and I tell them that I got there as fast as I could, while holding in my right hand a freshly purchased iced coffee. And while it may technically be less important than showing up to work on time, it is necessary that I stop to get a coffee, for without it, I could not feign interest in what customers were blabbering about.
     Going forward, I will be embarking on a new schedule that requires me to go to be earlier, and awaken at a time when adults are to awaken. I should have done this a long time ago, I know. Better late than never.

Babe in Arms

     I have created a blog that shall serve as a canvas upon which I can paint the portrait of a 26 year old male, who has yet to adopt the full responsibilities of adulthood. For years, both his actions and behaviors have rendered him undeserving of the label of "adult." No longer young enough to excuse his indiscretions by hiding behind adolescence, he struggles to become the man of distinction he believes he can one day be...
     More than likely I'll just be complaining about myself a lot. Follow along, won't you?
     I am 26 years old. You would consider me an adult. But what, exactly, does this mysterious word "adult" even mean? If one were to, perhaps, investigate the true meaning of the term using the most credible and incorruptible sources, i.e. Wikipedia, one would learn everything they needed to know about the word from the image offered:
     

"A group of adult people."

     I am not pictured above.

     What constitutes an adult? I believe it is, to an extent, all subjective. I hope that, in the entries to follow, I'm able to find out what it means to me, and to sculpt from this my ideal adult version of me. I also hope that, through my tribulations, you can figure it out, too.