Twenty, and the Mockery || August 20
The date is twenty. Same number I’ll be turning this year. Fantastic. Universe, thanks for the reminder that my excuses are officially expired. Twenty. Suddenly, everyone around me acts like turning this number unlocks a secret level of life. Calendar hits twenty, boom, wisdom. Congrats. You can count. Groundbreaking.
People treat this age like it’s magical. Coffee cup, selfie, caption: “Adulting is hard.” Adulting? Paying for Netflix with your dad’s card isn’t adulting. Crying at work because someone corrected your email isn’t adulting. Influencers posting, “Finally twenty, time to glow up.” Glow up? Really? You cried over TikTok drama, bitched about rent, and now suddenly you’re glowing. Sure. The glow must be somewhere invisible because I don’t see it.
Then there are the self-proclaimed “calendar sages.” These geniuses act like turning twenty made them some kind of life oracle. “At twenty, I realized people are fake.” Wow. Sherlock. And before that, what? Were you living under a rock? Gym bros love twenty too. Perfect age to flex, throw up pics of their biceps, and tell everyone how hard they’re “grinding”. Meanwhile, they still can’t spell protein without Google. Classic. Number gives them authority, apparently.
Social media philosophers jump in, too. “Twenty is when life really begins.” Oh really? Life begins when your notifications outnumber your friends, and paying your bills counts as a “milestone”? Revolutionary.And of course, everyone acts like twenty magically makes you serious. Invisible glasses appear. Society whispers: “You’re an adult now. Start pretending.” Pretend you know what you’re doing. Pretend you have goals. Pretend life isn’t just bills, notifications, and pretending not to be bored out of your mind. Everyone buys it. Nobody knows a damn thing. Clapping anyway.
People constantly say, “Your twenties are the best years of your life.” Best years? Who decided that? Someone peaked at twenty-five, I guess. My “best” looks like arguing with people I care about, staring at the ceiling, scrolling through nonsense, and convincing myself boredom isn’t slowly killing me.Twenty isn’t a party. It’s a funeral. Last bits of innocence burned. Society hands out a uniform: wear it. Act like you know what you’re doing. Pretend you’re not falling apart. I’ll wear it. We all do. Nod. Smile. Die a little every night.
They keep saying twenty means “new beginnings.” No. Mirror says different. Every excuse is gone. You can’t pretend you’re still “finding yourself.” Eventually, people stop buying it. They call it running. Running to what? Nobody knows. Just running.
And everyone else, oh dear lord. Watching everyone else worship this number is comedy gold. The coffee cup philosophers, the glow-up Instagramers, the gym bros with their protein smoothies, the self-proclaimed “calendar sages, “it’s like watching toddlers try to do algebra. They’re all so serious about nonsense. Acting like twenty makes them enlightened. Watching them think they’re better than everyone else because they passed some arbitrary number on a calendar. Hilarious.
Happy twentieth of August. It feels like the date, the age, and the number itself are all conspiring: twenty, twenty, twenty, haunts me, conspiring like it’s some cosmic joke. Scribbling it down. Won’t fix a thing. Doesn’t make it lighter. But documenting it helps, even if the underlying issues stick around.
Social media is a disease. Everyone’s addicted, pretending, performing. Scroll. Like. Comment. Repeat. People taking selfies like their face is a life accomplishment. Influencers acting like breathing is a skill. “Rise and grind,” yeah, rise, grind, post, repeat, nobody cares.
And the follower. oh, the followers. Worshipping pictures, emojis, meaningless words. “This really spoke to me “crying emoji” spoke to you? A pixelated sunset? A smoothie bowl? Sure, I’m sure that changed your life. Meanwhile, they’re scrolling past someone actually doing something. But no, like the post. That counts. Validation. Feels real. Trends. Challenges. Viral nonsense. People jumping on hashtags like they’re discovering fire. Every day a new “life hack,” a new dance, a new way to prove you exist. And everyone’s pretending they’re original. You’re not. You’re a clone. A filtered clone. Same jokes, same dances, same fake wisdom.
Then there’s the authenticity lie. “I’m real, no filter.” Yeah, until a brand DMs you. Suddenly, your “struggle” is curated, your “life” is sponsored, your “authenticity” is a product. Realness sold separately, of course.
Watching all of it is just funny . Hilarious. Ridiculous. People comparing themselves, crying over likes, fighting over comments, pretending significance comes from algorithms. I don’t scroll. I just watch it burn from the outside. And it’s beautiful in a disgusting way Influencers posting morning routines, smiling, acting like waking up counts as a life achievement. “Drink water. Meditate. Work out.” Amazing. Truly life-changing.
Social media isn’t real. It’s chaos. A circus. Everyone performing. Nobody living. And I? I’m outside. Observing. Mocking. Writing. Laughing at the ridiculousness, thinking about how stupid humans are, wondering why anyone cares, but thats just me.
sincerely
Ahmed