Before they reached their 30s, Eli Whitney invented the cotton gin, Napoleon conquered Italy, and Amelia Earhart set her first aviation record. At 34, I cannot figure out the child safety lock on my bottle of CVS brand mouthwash.

Growing up, I always thought I’d have some sort of grasp on life by my 20s, let alone my 30s. But every day is a challenge. The last Google search on my phone was how to make a grilled cheese sandwich. I just don’t know how to handle any of this adult stuff. I can’t seem to get my life together like Oprah or Prince George. Nothing seems to be falling into place. I’m expected to provide myself with food, clothes, and shelter, but how am I going to make a life for myself? For one thing, I’m single.

You can’t put me beside someone like Beyoncé and still believe that God loves everyone the same.

Sometimes I wonder why I’m single. And then I look in the mirror. People often assume I’m gay. I have short hair. I get my fashion sense from 12-year-old boys on the cusp of puberty. I wear glasses that are always smudged with God knows what. And I have the posture of a creature from an R.L. Stine book with scoliosis.

One quick side note, I would like to apologize to Velma for all the times I laughed when she lost her glasses on Scooby-Doo. As someone who now loses their glasses daily, I can say that it is one of the scariest things to happen. I couldn’t imagine trying to find my glasses while also trying to catch the Space Kook, who’s just Henry Bascombe attempting to exploit the land for money. So I tip my glasses to you, Velma.

But I am a woman, not a teenage boy. And I am not gay. Isn’t that a twist? It’s like M. Night Shyamalan wrote my life story. I feel as if God started out making me a lesbian, but then remembered he had a dinner party to attend, so he sent me out into the world unfinished. I was miscast. You can’t put me beside someone like Beyoncé and still believe that God loves everyone the same.

The worst part about being single isn’t the loneliness, but the fact that there are horrible people in this world who nevertheless found someone to love them. No one reading this, I’m sure. But I mean, Hitler had a wife. And we can all agree he was the worst person ever. He was so bad that he ruined a surname, a first name, and a moustache style. I know I’m not worse than Hitler, and yet he had someone who loved him.

If I were pretty, I would be on a yacht somewhere doing porn.

I consider it a blessing that I’m not good-looking, though. If I were, I know I would make poor life choices. Like, I would 100% be a stripper, and get paid just for looking good. That’s the life. Whenever I see a good-looking person who is a doctor or a teacher or a shift leader at a Target, I get angry. Do they not know there’s a much easier life waiting for them? People will throw money at them for just looking pretty. Whoever forced them to lift their beautiful, angelic finger to get a job should be shot. They’re simply taking the jobs from regular-looking people like me.

If I were pretty, I would be on a yacht somewhere doing porn. People always look down on women who earn a living from porn, but I think they’re just jealous. They’re upset no one’s offering them roles in Edward Penis Hands. If I were good-looking, I would probably end up in jail or dead, because I would be too carefree and happy, and get myself into bad situations. Like I’d be approached by sketchy men and end up in Cuba on a boat full of drugs and guns. And there are only two ways out of that scenario: death or jail. And despite what my sweater tells you, I’m not tough. I wouldn’t survive one night in jail. I’m not Morgan Freeman. I would be the cautionary tale people tell bad teens to scare them straight. For one thing, I’m a snitch. It wouldn’t matter how pretty I was, I’d still rat on anyone to save my skin. And according to street-wisdom, “snitches get stitches”. Which is fine by me because I have insurance. I’d rather have stitches and be able to watch The Last of US at home than be stitch-free and behind bars, not knowing what happened to Pedro Pascal and those monsters.

Going to jail is one of my biggest fears. It’s actually number three. Number one is getting transported back in time to the 1800s and I’m a slave, trying to convince the group planning to run away that night to let me tag along with them. And they say, “But Kellie, you’re kind of slow and out of shape. You should stay behind. We promise we’ll send help when we get up North.” And I say, “Naw, I can’t take this whole slavery thing any longer. I promise I’ll be able to run with you. Plus, I know a couple of card tricks, so if we have some downtime, I can entertain you guys.” And I finally convince them. But then cut to us running in the woods at night. And I’m sweating and choking on air and slowing down while pleading with everyone to wait for me. And then I hear a voice that could only be Harriet Tubman saying, “Leave her.” And they leave me alone in the woods, and I hear dogs barking in the distance getting closer.

Number two, by the way, is spiders.

So, I’m not good-looking. Also, I wouldn’t consider myself a happy person. Some people say that money can’t buy you happiness. And all those people are liars who are poor. Money can buy you anything, and that ought to make anyone happy. If I were rich, I would buy the Wizarding World of Harry Potter section at Universal Studios and wake up every day at Hogwarts. If that’s not happiness, I don’t know what is. But I’m not rich. And I’ll never be pretty enough to marry a rich guy.

Some days, I think I’m getting the hang of this finance thing. And then others, I wonder how much I can get for my kidney.

My main point is that money can buy you things that might help in your search for happiness. But I can’t figure out money either. Some days, I think I’m getting the hang of this finance thing. And then others, I wonder how much I can get for my kidney. Every so often, I get mad at myself for not inventing something that could’ve made me a millionaire. Like coming up with the idea for the Razor Scooter or the internet. But alas, I didn’t. I have this dream that I’ll be walking down the street and some rich guy in a top hat and a monocle will see me and say, “You seem like a good, kind person who needs money. Here is $1,000,000. Do with it what you’d like. I believe in you!”

I’m still hoping the world will wake up one day and say, “All this debt and money business needs to go. Let’s do a do-over and get rid of this whole rich and poor thing. Food for all! Housing for all! Services for all!” I keep watching the news for this breaking news story, but they just keep reporting on drive-bys and protests.

Years ago, I decided to do something about getting happier. I began to see a therapist. The most awkward part about this is the waiting area – sitting with a bunch of other sad-looking people. I just want to lean over and ask them, “So what’s wrong with you? What flavor of crazy are you? I got some of that anxiety and depression, but I’m hoping you got something a little more exotic. Like a fear of Pepperidge Farm cookies.”

My therapist believes my biggest problem is that I lack self-confidence. But I’ve had far too many McDonald’s hotcakes and sausage breakfasts to have any sort of respect for myself. He deserves all the money he makes because I’m not easy to fix. Half the time, he makes me believe I can be a functioning, productive member of society. And then the other half, I spend wondering if he knows how many cats the government would allow me to have in my future one-bedroom apartment.

All these thoughts keep me up for hours. But I always fall asleep eventually. And I wake up in the morning a little more relaxed. Because, as freaked out as I am now, I know that everyone goes through this phase in their life. There are glimmers of hope that I’ll end up alright. Maybe my instincts aren’t bad. Sometimes, when I watch Law and Order, the person I was suspicious of the whole time turns out to be the one running a kiddie porn ring.

It’s a start. You can’t get anywhere without starting. I might not be in my 20s anymore, but in my 30s I recognise that it’s never too late to rewrite your story. Every day is a chance to make it yours. Like the philosopher Drake once said, “YOLO”. YOLO indeed.

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