Years from now, when I think of the late spring that I was twenty-one, I'll remember spending most of my time reading about the election alone in my room, doing some vaguely unethical things for rent money, working on the record and trying to convince myself not to hate every song I ever wrote, not turning any homework in on time but writing some truly transcendent papers that were worth the late grade, and constantly listening to the Graduate.
Then, from this state of being an older version of G'Ra strolling down memory lane, I'll use these memories to construct a characterization of the late "ought years" in a Chuck Klosterman-eque essay and tangentially connect it to some grand and insightful observation about culture and society and the changing of the times. And the big problem I have with this is that even as I experience the things that will make up the retrospective meaning of this year of my life, my brain is already at least halfway invested in concocting some sort of artistic or aesthetic significance to it so I can later mine it for creative output. There is something intrinsically lame about this, I'm certain.
Maybe it's still not too late to become a garbageman when I grow up.