I like to pretend that I’m an adult; a functioning one at least. I clean myself up and drag my already aching body to work every day. I make shopping lists and pay my bills, I take my shirts to the dry cleaners and RSVP for weddings. But these days I’m sleeping alone on a sheetless bed because I can’t find the energy to deal with it. I find myself emotionally vulnerable enough to cry during bad pop-punk songs about high school crushes. My best relationship is the bartender I see on Friday nights on my way home from work; the one consistent thing these days. I can’t tell the difference between being twenty-five and being lost anymore. Maybe there isn’t one.