'Goddamnit Helen, where will my golf clubs go now Daria's home?'

I put down my suitcase on the bed I vacated seven years ago and sighed. I thought I'd not return to Lawndale until I died, most likely as a result of delayed radiation exposure from the microwave. Damn Poptarts, I thought it was only the tooth decay and saturated fats that could hurt me. But it turns out that a recession could hurt me. Specifically, in explaining why I was a twenty-five year old living in her parents' spare room, commuting forty miles in a fifteen-year-old car to a job she hated. Turns out Ivy League doesn't mean that much post-recession.

'Jake, why don't you just leave them in the car, you may as well the amount of time you spend on that golf course!'

'Oh blame old Jakey, you know my heart doctor said I had to exercise more often!', he said, slamming the door.

I may as well lay back on the bed, close my eyes, and let the conversation transport me back. Welcome home kiddo.

I majored in English Lit, had a year in Finland (the darkness of the country matching my cynicism), and worked at a publishing company when I returned. I liked it. You won't get a 'love' out of me. Age hasn't warmed me that much. I was doing my doctorate at the same time; doing the odd bits of writing on the side. Life was as good as it was going to get. But...again, recession. The publishers went bankrupt, I lost my job and my doctorate was suspended, on hold, postponed. As is my life now.

I made it for a while living off savings, but they can't sustain anyone forever. It turns out an English Lit degree isn't quite as transferable as all of those prospective open days say and so I found a job working in a coffee shop for a while. I've always liked coffee, and well, at least it wasn't Starbucks. A girl has to have standards. Then lo and behold, a guardian angel found me a job. One with bouncy hair, who can speak incessantly about the size of her pores. Yes, Quinn got me a job. At an online lifestyle magazine. So I'm technically writing again, but I'm writing 'articles' on the best celebrity Instagram posts of the week.

Quinn's the Beauty features assistant and lives in a shared house with the Fashion Club 2.0. It's actually not that bad working with her, but it's embarrassing that she had to get me a job. I spent all that time studying, and working towards what exactly? For vapid Quinn to help her 'brain' sister be gainfully employed? The pays low, not much higher than the coffee shop, and I couldn't afford the rent after a while. Quinn said I could sleep on her sofa, but I was frightened that members of the Fashion Club 2.0 might try to curl my eyelashes whilst I was unconscious so that wasn't much of an option. So here I am, back home with Mom and Dad. Twenty-five, over-educated, under-caffeinated (Mom got rid of coffee after Dad has his second heart attack) and in her old room. At least the padded walls are still here...