I AM A ******* ADULT.

At the very least, the status is implied
by the Jenga-tower
of (mostly unopened) envelopes
on top my refrigerator
(which is full of ingredients now,
occasionally,
instead of scraps or dead-end, quick-fix options)

My wine comes in bottles, now;
$6 bottles, on average, but still.
(though I maintain my
unconditional support of the
undeniable
economical benefits and efficiency offered
by pumping it into/out of a box)


Why is the measure of maturity exhaustion?


Two years ago, I bought a file cabinet,
for no other reason
than it seemed like the
'adult'
thing to do at the time.
Inside lies reams of papers
instinct tells me to save.
Some with impressive
time-sensitive, stamped, sealed, italicized importance.
Times New Roman.
PAY ATTENTION.

My plates don't match,
and technically until less than four months ago
I only had one bowl,
but i have a decent can opener and
measuring cups of various degrees.
-No ladle. -
(But how often does one really need a ******* ladle?)


Why is the measure of maturity exhaustion?


A queen-sized mattress
minimizes the volume of my
minimally-spaced apartment.
A point of pride last year
after the 24 it took to shake the twin-sized option.
Sheets with a thread count
low enough for my cat to count to
but I could get some throw pillows,
or a dust ruffle. (do people still have dust ruffles?!)

I am a ******* adult.
What a shock
to discover
from where I sleep on this red denim couch.
(Did I forget to mention, that
I only sleep in my bed like once a month?)
But I can see the file cabinet from here.
Doesn't that count for something?

**Why is the measure of maturity exhaustion?