My birthday is next month. I'll be 25. Twenty five. Twenty five was my number, I always knew for sure I would have a "life" by age 25. And by "life" I mean started a life with someone. Working toward common goals together, maybe talking about kids, living life side by side with someone. But instead, at age 25, I will have a dog.
I've either made peace with the fact that my life is where it is. Or I'm on the brink of a mental breakdown. I don't know. Check back in a month or so.