My Attempt at Adulthood Was a Hilarious Disaster.

Let me tell you the tragic tale of the time I tried to be a “responsible adult.” Spoiler alert: it ended with a broken shelf, three burned pizzas, and a call to my mom… who laughed at me. Loudly.

It all started when I moved into my first apartment. No roommates, no parents, no witnesses to my questionable life choices. I was free! Like a bird. A very confused bird with no survival instincts.

Chapter 1: IKEA Is a Trap

I decided to furnish my apartment like a real grown-up, so I went to IKEA. Rookie mistake.

I thought I was just getting a bookshelf. What I got was a cardboard box filled with 2,000 tiny wooden sticks, 6 suspiciously identical screws, and instructions written by what I can only assume was a Swedish poet on mushrooms.

Four hours later, the bookshelf was finally assembled. Backwards. And upside down. And slightly threatening my life. It leans like it's trying to whisper secrets to the wall.

Chapter 2: Cooking Catastrophe

Next up, I attempted cooking. Because adults cook. I had visions of myself sautéing vegetables, sipping wine, and humming jazz like those TikTok chefs.

What actually happened was this:

I confused baking soda with baking powder. (Fun fact: they’re not interchangeable. They’re evil cousins.)

The pizza caught fire. In the oven. Inside a fireproof tray. I don’t even know how that’s scientifically possible.

I used the smoke alarm as my kitchen timer.

By the end of the week, my diet was 90% instant noodles and 10% tears.

Chapter 3: Laundry Lessons

Did you know you’re not supposed to wash white shirts with red socks? Because I didn’t. Not until I turned all my underwear a lovely shade of “embarrassing blush.”

Also, apparently you can’t just dump detergent into the machine like you’re seasoning chicken. It looked like my washing machine had a rabies outbreak. Suds were EVERYWHERE. My neighbor thought I was running a foam party.

Chapter 4: The Plant Incident

Thinking a little greenery might give my home some adult vibes, I bought a houseplant. The label said “Low Maintenance.”

Lies. This plant was more high-maintenance than my ex. It needed sunlight, water, attention, compliments, and emotional support. I watered it once and gave it a pep talk. Still died on me. I felt personally rejected.

Chapter 5: The Social Life of an “Adult”

I thought living alone would make me mysterious and cool. Instead, I found myself talking to my fridge. Not even in a poetic way. More like:

“Hey man, you still got cheese back there?”

“You better not be hiding expired yogurt again.”

“If I find that moldy thing you tricked me into ignoring last week, we’re DONE.”

Sometimes I’d dress up just to throw my trash out, because that’s when I saw the most humans.

Chapter 6: Online Bills and Mild Crying

Nobody told me that bills just... show up. Uninvited. Constantly. The internet bill, electricity bill, water bill, emotional damage bill — okay, maybe that one’s just therapy.

I tried automating my payments. Accidentally paid my landlord twice and left my Spotify unpaid. Result: No music, but excellent credit score. Go me.

Chapter 7: The Grand Finale – Panic Plumbing

One day, I noticed a leak under the sink. “No big deal,” I said. “I’m handy now.” (Delusion level: Expert.)

I googled some DIY stuff, watched half a YouTube tutorial, and confidently grabbed a wrench. Fifteen minutes later, the entire kitchen floor was a miniature water park.

I slipped, hit my head on the counter, and dramatically lay on the floor like I was in a soap opera.

Eventually, I had to call a plumber. When he arrived, he just looked around and asked, “Did you try to fix this yourself?”

I stared at him with my wet hair and bruised dignity and said, “No, the pipes got emotional and started crying. Like me.”

The Moral of the Story

Adulting is not a straight line. It’s a zigzag roller coaster with questionable food decisions, accidental plumbing disasters, and laundry tragedies. But you learn. You grow. You laugh. Mostly at yourself.

Sometimes, being an adult is just looking both ways before crossing the street and still almost getting hit by a bird.

But hey, if you’ve ever stood in front of your fridge eating shredded cheese from the bag and calling it dinner, just know—you’re not alone.

You're just... creatively surviving.