I’m not generally a story topper but usually when a friend comes to me with a ‘woe is me’ story, I offer up my latest escapade (because there seems to always be a latest escapade) and say “Hey man, it could be worse, it could be…[insert escapade here]”
Buuuuuuuut they finally did it. Two of my friends are officially worse off than me. I can’t compete. AND IT’S AWESOME! I think I’ll strut a bit today.
Friend 1 is buying a condo.
Why doesn’t anyone tell the truth about major life events? Why must they all insist they’re magical, fluffy unicorns when, in actuality, they’re more akin to being murdered by a horde of demons armed with thick paper (for paper cuts) and lemons (for squeezing in said paper cuts and they’ll give you so many that you die from it. Eventually.)
Buying a house, getting married, spawning a child. These are all supposed to be magical life events that are wondrous occurrences, signifying your leveling-up in adulthood. But what no one tells you is the SHEER HORROR OF EACH OF THESE EVENTS. There’s no magical unicorn. No fluffy rainbow. There’s just a maniacal bunny pointing and laughing at you and you want to much to pet the fuzzy beast but you just know it’ll go all Monty Python on your ass and you’ll suddenly be the headless horseman – horsePERSON, thank you very much, it’s not the bloody 50’s anymore, no one liked the 50’s anyways except maybe Coke, I feel like they liked the 50’s… what?
Buying a house sucks worse than a broken vacuum with no suction. It’s all fun and games until you see a shiny place that you’d like to purchase for yourself and then it’s all downhill like a big rig with no brakes from there. The seller drags their feet. The seller’s realtor goes on frequent vacations (ok, we get it, you make a fuckload of money…). You have to wade through months of bullshit strata meeting minutes that basically tell you which neighbors are whiny bastards and which try to hide dog poop in the gutters (WTF people? Really?) They also tell you which neighbors are cultured and pretentious and play the piano… and which ones are intolerant rednecks and complain about the strains of Chopin ruining their shopping cart BBQ.
You’ll also find out that your mortgage broker doesn’t really want you to get any money and, as much as they don’t want to give you their money, they want you to have your own even less. “What do you mean you deposited an extra $5 in your savings seven months ago? Where did it come from? I need a notarized affidavit stating it was a gift from your dead uncle’s hamster’s estate”.
And don’t even get me started on weddings – hello, Bridezilla. It’s a thing. Do you think those bitches are happy? NO! They’re wondering what the fuck they were thinking when they agreed to the whole wedding thing. “But Megan, some brides are happy,” I hear you say. Yeah, because they’re heavily medicated – and not necessarily with their knowledge or consent. Why do you think the divorce rate is so high? Because the husband stopped being able to sneak her the happy pills.
Sure, on the surface pregnancy sounds like fun. I’ll just sit around and eat all the things, right? Not so much. For the first three months your body will attempt to eject the parasite (because that’s what the fetus is) via projectile vomiting (that’s how the reproductive system works, right?). Then you’ll have to pee fifty million times per day. Then there’s the mile long list of things that could go wrong with you or the
parasite baby and unfortunately nothing that could go right. As in, the mother never comes out the other side of pregnancy saying “Hey, my boobs got bigger and stayed bigger! Woo!” No. That doesn’t happen. You’ve got a damaged body and this crying thing that you hope to hell you can mold into someone who won’t stick you in a crappy home when you’re old and frail and you’ve spent all your money gambling on bingo and greyhounds.
Friend 2 let her boyfriend do buttstuff.