Thought Catalog Haters is a tumblelog.

The result? Apparently, hyper-achievers obsessed with being well-rounded at the expense of their souls. In the bellies of today’s recent grads lies an enormous void where something crucial is missing: The self. It’s no wonder the present wave of writers rebelliously prizes self-examination, the lavish indulgence of human experience, of clumsy sex, bad kisses, and — despite having no idea what grunge was — obsessive ownership of the 90s, the decade of the silly Nickelodeon childhood they should have had.

The “I HATE EVERYONE” Feeling

This is one of the most common feelings to ever exist and can be triggered by a variety of different things, including but not limited to: spending too much time on the internet, talking to a stupid person, watching a fat person eat a hot fudge sundae, or finding out that someone you know is becoming more successful than you. There is no way to really get rid of this feeling other than to just, you know, love yourself. But that’s really hard to do. To love yourself is to know yourself and who the HELL really knows who they are?

But there is another viable option. A place where I could shirk all occupational, social and domestic responsibilities, have plenty of time to think and write, free myself from nearly all technology, and still be able to work my arms, legs and core on a regular basis.

Prison.

What is being in your twenties if it’s not musing over the drawn-out ten-year process of leaving your childhood and becoming (shudder) an adult? If you can’t spend every birthday from 20 to 30 going, “Oh, my God, I am f-cking ancient. Tell those 19-year-olds in the corner to shut the f-ck up before I rip their fake IDs out of their Ring Pop-covered hands. Ugh,” then what are you doing with your life? This is the time for feeling inappropriately old, and here, the reasons why.

fml some mom srsly just mistook me for her 7-year-old daughter walking through the park #littlepplproblems
— @tyrion_lannz

When I re-watched the premiere in April, I found myself examining the show in a different way. All of the noise, all of the criticism that I had been inundated with for the past month, was marring the scenes I once found enjoyable. “Damn you, internet!” I thought to myself. “Must you ruin everything!” I thought of a show like Sex and the City and how it would’ve been affected if the internet had been as big as it is now. I mean, are you kidding me? It would’ve been skewered! Irate bloggers would’ve called it anti-feminist, stereotypical, classist, racist, and a lot of other “ists” I wouldn’t have understood. Thank God it managed to avoid the wrath of bloggers and exist on its own. Because all of this other stuff, all of this incessant buzzing from people who aren’t you, really does detract from your viewing experience. I shouldn’t have to feel weird about loving a show like Girls. I shouldn’t have to preface my adoration with “I know how you all feel about it but…” If I like it, I like it. I shouldn’t have to care about all the people who don’t or justify my reasons for enjoying it. Couldn’t I just love Girls in this pure way, in this way that it’s meant to be watched?

Writers are crazy.

And I don’t mean crazy in the way people throw the word at anyone we disagree with, I actually mean insane. We’re often misunderstood and deeply troubled. We have to be at least a little bit mentally unstable, or we wouldn’t be any good at what we do. Really, who wants to read something a boring sane person wrote, anyway? Not me.

And then when the summer ends, I’ll have to go back to my last year at graduate school, my last year before I have to grow up and go do real adult things. Dad will stand next to mom, with a look of pride on his face and that mischievous Ira Glass-twinkle in his eye that either means that he’s happy, that he put Terry Gross’ stapler in jello again or that he just farted. He won’t say it exactly, but from that look, I’ll know that he’ll know that I know how much he cares about me. With my backpack packed and my khakis perfectly ironed, I’ll smile and wave and promise to email or call every day, or at least text him pictures of strangers on the “L” train doing the darnedest things.