“Even straight roads meander.”

I am 24 years old. The only reason I know this is because every time someone asks me how old I am I have to minus the current year from 1984. I don’t act like a 24-year-old, apparently don’t look like a 24-year-old (thank you, bartenders, for making me show you my ID every single time), and, according to two of my parents, I don’t make appropriate decisions for a 24-year-old. “Oh, Darien, don’t quit your job just because you don’t like it. You think I liked my first job?” “You’re moving again? What a stupid decision.” “Have you thought about what you’re going to do in the future?”

The opinion I always have, which I feel blossomed in me at birth, is this:

Does life have to follow a plan?

Two of my four parents believe that I am wasting my time – and my life, I’m sure they really want to say – because my lifestyle isn’t the natural progression of the trail map people call Life. Let’s just say I’ve had some tangents.

Yes, I graduated from a great school in four years, but four years instead of three because I simply did not want to leave college and enter The Real World. (P.S. I hate you, MTV, because that shit is NOT the real world.) I got a real job, which I quit seven months later because I was bored and didn’t want to ease into a path where I moved back home, got a good job, and, well, retired 50 years later. Moved to NY because I was convinced that Conde Nast would give me a job, which they didn’t because I couldn’t even get through the main lobby, so then retreated back to Florida with pennies in my bank account. I was jobless for a couple of months and used my time to read great books, drink wine and appreciate the sun on my skin – all things I knew would soon be ripped from me once I was hired somewhere (anywhere). Got another real job, but after only six months there (pattern, anyone?) my boyfriend got a job in Colorado and so we packed up my car and drove semi-cross country to the place I now call “my apartment.” It’s been four months.

Yes, maybe it would’ve been easier if I suffered through my first job and climbed my way up through the corporate ladder, but what if that’s not me? Why are kids pushed into getting a “good job” right out of college? Why do you have to stay with one company for your entire working life just so you can have a fat going away party and a slice of your favorite cake? Why are we required to work 40 hours a week? HOW COME NO ONE PUSHES YOU TO TRAVEL THE WORLD, WRITE A BOOK, TRY A MILLION JOBS BEFORE YOU PICK A CAREER?

In a sense: What is the big fucking rush?

My perfect job is to travel the world, eat amazing food, take glorious pictures, write goosepimple-inducing stories, meet fantastic people who can better my life, and somehow get paid to do so. That would not be a job. That would be a fantasy come true. And it wouldn’t require me to settle down in one town and work  just so I can save money for when I am lucky enough to get my two-week vacation.

So, now where. That is my next big decision. It will most certainly not be making sure I have appropriate close-toed shoes to wear with my black suit at, god forbid, my next job interview.