Wait. This is adulthood?

I woke up this morning in my new home, a room on the second floor of a NE Portland house. Roughly 12x15 feet with an open closet, smooth wood floors, white walls, one window crammed against the wall, gray sky blinding me when I look outside. A desk stands across from it, covered in stickers - someone else's memories and hobbies. The futon on the ground is my only other piece of furniture - last night, waiting for real bedding to arrive in the mail, I slept under a sheet and two scarves. I feel lucky to have some hangers.

Umm...excuse me life, but I thought I switched from the "college life" contract and signed up for the "adulthood" plan. You know, weekday job, 9-5 (or 7), consistent money, apartment, responsibility for my own needs. Is the some kind of transition program outlined in the fine print, or did I ever actually switch? Will I start buying top ramen and Hendrix posters?

Oh well. Adulthood is no lofty goal that I wish to attain. It's not much of a goal at all. It would be more frightening, right now, to have an apartment of my own, a matching bedroom set and enough money that I didn't consider nutella just too much of a splurge.

Really, I just want some tacks so I can cover these white walls. And utter control of the kitchen, mmm.