fuck giraffes, all uppity with their long necks and their fancy toys

In my scant days as a Hindenburger, I have tackled such diverse topics as Richard Dreyfuss, ghost dinosaurs, and international politics vis-a-vis whiskey drinking. However, recently I have become obsessed with a new topic: Adulthood.

In the time since my (admittedly less-than-graceful) departure from Princeton, I have, quite suddenly, grown up. I find myself a less-goofy Tom Hanks, suddenly Big, if you will indulge me. Working 9-5 at my own version of a toy company (it involves virtually no transforming robots or giant-keyboard dancing), I find myself staring deeply into the gloaming of adult responsibility. Suddenly it is no longer acceptable to show up to every occasion hungover and reeking of whiskey sours; apparently getting drunk on borrowed gin and falling asleep in a rolling suitcase is not fitting of a grown man. Yes, dear friends, this Puritanical world of water bills and grocery shopping (just one bottle of wine at dinner, young man--nay, a half!) is a disorienting place, and the urge to cry, to stay in bed, or enroll in graduate school can be strong, and tempting.

Fret thee not, however! There is an oasis in this professionally-attired desert. There are office parties to attend and have too much to drink at! There is classic workplace gossip; nothing says fun like talking shit about fellow employees when you should be working! And don't forget fucking around on the internetz. Yes, friends, there is hope. At first, you feel daunted, cowed, by your newfound adulthood. You stand stiff, set your alarm to give ample time to prepare and then leave for work, become concerned with "getting enough sleep" and fulfilling your responsibilities at work. After a bit of time passes, however, you're showing up to work with that good ol' vodka cologne not-so-delicately applied, lips still stained a faint Sparks orange, and you excuse yourself to vomit in the employee restroom.

No one grows up anymore, anyway.