pantry confessions

Okay, it's you,

us? ...me?

Anyway I'm forty.

If you're hearing this at nineteen,

don't freak out.

I'm hiding in the pantry because it's the only quiet room.

Yes, we still hide in pantries.

You move to London,

you hate it for six months

Then you love it for ten years

You quit the job you thought was your dream And find the

one you didn't know to dream about

You live in four flats One with mold,

one with mice

One with a view so good you cry on the balcony

You finally learn to keep a plant alive at thirty-two

It's a cactus named Kevin,

low bar but we celebrate

You don't end up with who you think

You end up with someone who laughs when you snort And makes

the rice you never learned to make

And they actually like your weird songs

You have a kid?

No.

You have a dog?

Kind of.

You have a chosen family of like six girls who would hide

a body for you

And one boy who makes really good pancakes

I'm calling to say it gets less loud

The voice in your head that says you're late,

you're late

It gets quieter

Not gone,

but quieter Like a radio in another room

Oh, flying cars?

No.

But they do have AI that helps with everything now

You use it a lot,

by the way

And Crocs are fashionable again,

I warned you

Your mum is fine,

she still sends you twelve texts in a row

Your dad learned to text with emojis and it's worse than you

imagined

You go home for Christmas and you actually want to

You stop straightening your hair every day

You get a tattoo you don't regret,

only one though

The other two...

we'll talk about that later

At twenty-four

you think your life is over,

it's not

At twenty-seven you think you're finally an adult,

you're not

At thirty-three

you have a full-blown panic attack in IKEA

And a very nice lady named Fatima helps you find the exit

And you learn that adult isn't a finish line

It's just...

doing the laundry before you run out of pants It's paying your

own vet bill and crying with pride

(You have thirty seconds

remaining) Shit okay — last thing

You write that album

The one you're scared to write at nineteen

People hear it. Like,

really hear it.

So stop deleting everything you make,

okay?

Save it.

For me.

I love you.

Don't call back.

Just

go live it,

and...

buy stock

in oat milk.