24 Hours Post Frontal Lobe Full Development
It’s 29 January today. Exactly one day after my birthday, and I’m still in that sweet post-birthday haze. They say your frontal lobe finishes cooking at 25, so according to some ironically unscientific rumor, I’m now theoretically a fully developed adult. I can say with absolute certainty that I’m far wiser than I was 48 hours ago. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m 25 years wiser than the me from 25 years ago. Crazy, right?
Let me tell you about my week. I owe you that much, at least.
In reality, I was sick for the past two weeks, hopped up on paracetamol with a splitting headache—so most of my elaborate “turning 25” plans went straight down the drain. I had big intentions: writing my traditional self-update blog post, planning a piece of music to commemorate this milestone, losing weight, being healthier, staying consistent with work and studies. Essentially, I was supposed to be a shiny, new me by now. But have I really changed?
I believe I have. A lot. Though not in ways people easily spot.
(Yes, okay, maybe they’ve spotted my recent “growth” laterally, anteriorly, and just a smidge posteriorly. Thanks for noticing.)
Typically, I dread my birthdays. I’m a January baby, which means I get a second shot at New Year’s about twenty-seven days after everyone else. That gives me exactly twenty-seven days of limbo before my personal new year arrives. Funny enough, the busiest day of my life is usually my birthday: I lock myself in my room, cranking out articles, blogs, or even composing music to mark another rotation around the sun. It’s a personal tradition of self-love—albeit the type that looks a bit like self-inflicted academic torture.
Most people use birthdays to relax, celebrate, and maybe go out with friends. But for me, I reward myself with work I love. I reflect on the past year, figure out where I am, then plan for what’s next. Typically, I enjoy it: the thrill of a blank slate, the satisfaction of writing something meaningful. But after 25 birthdays and 25 New Years, I’ve come to a simple conclusion:
All goal setting and milestone chasing is bullshit until proven otherwise.
And it never was, and probably never will be, proven otherwise.
You wanna know how I actually started my life as a newly diagnosed, fully “frontal-lobed” 25-year-old manchild?
By shoving a fried chicken thigh from A&W into my mouth the second the clock struck midnight.
You know, the same piece of chicken Mom told me to put in the fridge? Yeah, that one. Instead of refrigerating it, I decided it belonged in my gaping oral orifice. All this while I was reading an utterly cliché Wattpad romance, thank you very much.
(Listen, I was hungry—and yes, I’ve been in a wonderful relationship for the past three years, but that doesn’t stop me from devouring romance novels. Who can judge?)
So there I was, high on the delightful crackle of breading and crispy skin dripping with oil, deep into the heaty scenes of my Wattpad story, when I got a text.
Image.heic
From none other than my mother—who was literally in the room behind me. The notification blocked my reading, iMessage style, and snapped me back to reality. One glance at the time she sent it, and I needed exactly two seconds to digest my situation:
I was sitting in pitch-black darkness. Mom had told me to put all leftover food in the fridge, which I did—minus that glorious piece of chicken thigh I was currently making sweet, greasy love to. I was also running on minimal sleep and had popped four paracetamol tablets earlier in the day for a headache. This definitely wasn’t my usual, carefully orchestrated birthday. I used to be excited about them: new year, new me, fresh goals, the chance to create something meaningful as a newly older (and presumably wiser) person.
But now? I was just some guy in the dark, eating contraband fried chicken and letting Wattpad romance whisk me away. And the next thing I did? I laughed. Like, a full-blown cackle. I mean, never in my life did I expect to launch my 25th year looking like a midnight gremlin. But the moment was so ridiculous, so off-script, I kind of loved it. And hell yeah, I’m enjoying every second of it.
I decided, right then and there, to just let go—for once. For the first time in many birthdays, I decided not to give a single fried chicken about what I was supposed to be doing: not on my birthday, not on New Year’s, not at any so-called milestone. I just wanted to embrace my inner sea lion: flopping across the bed all day, devouring Wattpad chapters, and definitely not counting calories.
(By the way, Wattpad is my current hyperfixation. Thank you, ADHD. And no, I will not apologize.)
I also decided to shed, at least momentarily, all the identities I usually carry: final-year medical student, musician, aspiring writer, generally functional human adult. The only identity I definitely didn’t shake was my gender—although the smell emanating from my unwashed armpits was apparently too intense for my mom to handle. So for her sake (and, possibly, public health), I eventually caved and showered on my birthday. She’ll miss the stench someday, I keep telling her.
Anyway, yesterday was a blast. Truly. It was the first birthday where I felt zero pressure to prove anything to myself or anyone else. I was… content with where I am in life. Sure, I might be slipping a bit in my education, in my music, and I’m definitely acquiring mass in places I didn’t plan for. But I realized self-blame and self-rejection can only get me so far.
At this point, I’m just done caring in the destructive sense. I’m tired, and I’m done beating myself up. Because, look—despite being the exact opposite of the person I once imagined I’d be at 25, all I want now is to spend time doing things that actually matter to me, for people who matter to me. Everything else? I’ll handle it when I handle it.
So, happy birthday to me, I suppose.
I know this blog is late. My health and my responsibilities took me out of commission for a bit, but I’m almost fully recovered now—hence this slightly belated birthday post. Thanks to everyone who wished me well, and I hope you enjoyed the holiday if you got one.
Until next year (and sorry, there’s no guarantee I won’t be in the dark with a chicken thigh and Wattpad again). See you around, peep's.
