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(and, yes, we've been busy jackholes: we have jobs. 22IstheEnd still is alive.)

FOR ALL THOSE NOT T'ING G I F

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WHAT 22 IS THE END: YOU ARE FATIGUED FROM THE RESULTING TIME CHANGE DAYLIGHT SAVING BRINGS

This past Saturday night I attempted to watch a new horror movie I had purchased. It was the perfect cleanse to a crazy two weeks of non-stop, ridiculous, mind-numbing work and I was very excited to see it, as I had heard great things. As the clock approached midnight, the sounds of screaming and murder and highly-evolved-plant-life-massacring-humans sang me to a deep sleep. I woke up on my couch at 4AM, dazed and startled: I wasn't asleep for that long. I sidled my way across the living room floor into my bedroom and continued on sleeping.

I woke up the next morning at 9AM and knew something felt funny. I had a busy Sunday and only realized at "2:30PM" that my clock was wrong: I was a victim of Daylight Saving Time. That night, I got home, ate dinner, and hung out with my family, but could not muster the will power to stay awake beyond--I don't know--10PM.

For the past three days, I've just been an absolute wreck from Daylight Saving Time. Recently, the slightest of changes in my sleeping patters eff me up. I can't stay awake for more than three hours without getting groggy. I frequently zone out and forget what work needs to be done: I am an absolute waste on many different levels from fucked up sleep.

At 22 years old, this is a problem. Every time I decide to watch the Colbert Report--I'm a mess. Whenever I go out and have some drinks with friends, costing me a midnight hour, I'll be a vegetable the next day. If I am at work beyond 9PM (which happens a lot)--I have to go home and lay my head on a pillow and sleep for many, many hours. 

Daylight Saving Time's beginning has disrupted my internal clock. And, like many adults, I have been introduced to a despicable culture of "tired adults," who find a bond in common misfortunes. Daylight Saving Time hits this nail on the head, reinforcing that--after a certain age--there is an unstated agreement that "Oh, something sucks in life: let us find a means to express our malcontent!" And, let me be the first to say: this malcontent is expressed in the most mature and progressive of ways.

Daylights Saving Time has helped usher in post-college life and has made me proud to be 22. Who wants to be lively, anyway?

TODAY IN IM: MONOGAYMOUS

K: I HAVE SWORN OFF ALL OTHE GAYS
K: WHY IS THAT
K: IM MONOGAYMOUS
K: I NEVER IMAGINED THAT DAY WOULD COME: I WOULD BECOME MONOGAYMOUS WITH A WOMAN
K: TELL YOUR MOM
K: THIS SOUNDS LIKE A GREAT "TODAY IN IM" POST

WHY 22 IS THE END: ZITS ARE FOREVER

I have been fortunate enough in my lifetime to have clear skin. I've never had to use acne washes or go see a dermatologist or even have to pop a zit or follow in the footsteps of Jennifer Love Hewitt and Jessica Simpson. I've always had clear skin and have always been followed by the envious eyes of pizza faces everywhere. My frequently pimple free face has helped me pass as a high schooler even at 22. It's pretty cool to get carded every time you try to buy cigarettes, alcohol, lighters, or even spray paint. It's never inconvenient. Never.

Kristen, like me, has also enjoyed the blessing of zitless skin and clear complexion. However, like me, she has suffered the same affliction: when you do get pimples, you get them bad. This was always the problem in high school: the occasional crater you didn't know how to deal with. A zit would come, attack for a week, and leave us on our merry way. We never had time to learn how to understand them or even befriend them enough to make it work for us (if that's even possible).

At 22, pimples are becoming more and more problematic because you aren't in high school and everyone notices and feels the need to make clever euphemisms about it ("Oh, looks like something bit you on your lip!"; "Where'd you get that fancy new beauty mark?"; "What? Run out of Pro-Active?"). And, every time I get a pimple, I'm like "EMERGENCY EMERGENCY HOW DO YOU FIX THIS WTF MATE" It makes me wish I had had terrible acne in my youth because then I would know how to deal with pimples. Now, when I get the occasional, unsightly face (well, eye)sore, I just scratch it and try to pop it, aggravating it to an extreme point where people look at you and only have "LOOK AT THAT ZIT" on their mind.

Maybe, at some point in the future, zits will stop trying to conquer my face once a month, a prospect that seems impossible. Until that point, I need to figure out how I'm going to deal with this when I am 32. Or, I'll just preoccupy my thoughts with trying to learn how to accept other things I don't like about my body, so zits will seem inconsequential.

A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS...OR TEN

It's okay, Chris. We know Rihanna was asking for it.

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