Quarter Life Crisis: How Many Stormys

…does it take to change a light bulb?

No seriously.

The lights in the main room of my apartment went out last week.

Here we go, I thought, forced to face yet another new trial in this world we call “adulting.”

Geez, I tell ya. Every time you start thinking you’re doing a pretty good job at this stuff, the lights go out on all of your pride. In this case, quite literally.

Disclaimer: The title of this post is not a matter of questioning my ability to replace a light bulb. I mean c’mon guys, I didn’t grow up that privileged and oblivious. I’ve changed many a light bulb in my day, EXCUSE YOU.

But see,

the light bulb changing process, as I’ve known it, has always gone as follows:

1.) Light bulb goes out

2.) Storm goes to the storage closet/garage/junk drawer/fallout shelter/apocalypse bunker/what have you, and pulls out new light bulb

3.) Storm replaces light bulb

4.) Storm revels in her accomplished task (it’s the little things, guys), and basks in the new light

But this time is different.

This time, I can’t figure out Step 2.

I went to the storage closet/garage/junk drawer/fallout shelter/apocalypse bunker/what have you, to discover that not only do I not even have a storage closet/garage/junk drawer/fallout shelter/apocalypse bunker/what have you in my shoebox of a studio, but I also don’t have any light bulbs!

It was in that moment that it occurred to me.

Light bulbs are a thing…that you buy. They don’t just come with the concept of having your own living space.

And woah, woah WAIT…

nothing does…

Oh. My. God. What’s next? What have I gotten myself into? How does anyone do this? I—I never read the manual! It didn’t come with the deal either.

…Just like the light bulbs.

…Just like everything else.

And I repeat, Oh my God. I eventually stopped hyperventilating and peeled myself off the floor and prepared myself to be a competent human being and get more light bulbs. But hold on. Where do light bulbs come from?


Light bulb stork?

Light bulbs R Us?


Light bulb dealer under the sketchy overpass?

I took to the Internet. You can apparently get them…almost everywhere. Who knew?! Don’t actually answer that. But anyways, Google sent me to Lowe’s. I unscrewed one of my light bulbs for reference, and headed there.

By the time I arrived at the store, I had sent myself through at least three different levels of mental anguish about the whole ordeal. A strange mix of embarrassment and pride led me to look for the light bulbs, refusing to ask for any assistance.

Like a moth to a flame, I walked towards the middle of the warehouse to the lighting department. You know, where all the lamps and ceiling fans and lawn lights, and just…just all the lights are. And they’re all on. And of course I’d find light bulbs in a giant area of lit ones, right?

I couldn’t find a single light bulb for sale.

In the light section. The section of the store where everything related to making your home not dark is located. I walk one aisle over. Doorbells. I go to the other aisle over. Nuts and bolts. I go back to the lighting department, because it only makes sense, and I must have overlooked it.

So much light.

So many fans.

It’s bright.

It’s cool.

It’s lacking in light bulbs.

And I’m lacking in patience.

I asked for help. The light bulbs were in aisle 1. Only as far away as possible from the light section without putting them outside with the potted plants. But who am I to try and apply common sense to the organization of a hardware store?

Finally, light bulbs.

There are numbers. Numbers with Ws next to them.

weather? water? why?…wumbo?

Let’s just say it stands for whatever, because my head is starting to hurt.

Okay, well how many whatever’s do I need? Does it matter? Would it be there if it didn’t matter? How am I suppposed to know how many whatever’s I need?

I pull out the old light bulb that I remembered that I brought with me for such a time as this. I analyze the small print at the base of the bulb.

Trisonic. Numbers with a K at the end. Numbers with a V at the end. Assorted warnings that I skimmed. Where’s the W? There’s no W. And the boxes of light bulbs have no Ks or Vs… Well this was a load of help.

I figure I’ll just buy a box, and if it blows up my house, I’ll return it for the correct amount of whatever’s. You would think that was the end of my debacle. But no. I get through the whatever’s and then I’m faced with all of these colors.

Soft white. Off white. Bright white. Bright bright white. Not so bright white. Egg white. Cocaine white. White power. And then the yellows. Please don’t make me re-live the yellows.

Since when does light have a color anyway? I thought it was all the colors and none of the colors? At the same time, kinda? I don’t know, I was an English major in school, science is lost on me. And so is this purchase.

I just had a seat on the floor for a moment. Confused. Overwhelmed. Thinking to myself, I’m…going to die here…trying to buy light bulbs.


I can’t go out like that.

I just bought a damn box. It said ‘Daylight.’ And I figured maybe the 60w bulbs, because my apartment is old so maybe I don’t want all of the whatevers, but I deserve more than the bare minimum of whatevers…whatever the whatevers are.

I successfully replaced all seven light bulbs in my apartment, and a week has gone by without me short circuiting the building so I guess I did it right? Right amount of whatevers. The daylight light is kind of nice for selfies. I’d consider this a win. Yes. I did the adulting and won. Until my next crisis, guys.


I didn’t get much sleep last night.

I laid in bed yesterday, just staring into the dark for a while. Twas a nice time for contemplating and whatnot, as I listened to the birds outside my window, calling to each other. I thought to myself, gosh…if we don’t have the slowest birds in this neighborhood!

Oh did I forget to mention that it was three in the morning? Yeah, 3am. What the feezy were those things doing chirping like they were welcoming a new dawn? Go to sleep! And re-calibrate your body clock, because this nature thing? You’re kinda doing it wrong.

Then I wake up in the morning to hear the hooting of owls in broad daylight. This area has the most inappropriate wildlife, I swear.


I can’t really talk though. You know how in The Sims 3, you make your sim’s personality traits? If I were a sim, Inappropriate would definitely be one of the five. And I don’t mean just socially awkward things, or even conscious actions. I mean, I do sometimes scroll through my Facebook news feed and like sad statuses. But that’s not what I mean. It runs much deeper than that.


I’m that girl you’ll see walking down the street in the middle of July wearing uggs. I find it a great time to finally wear all of my skirts in 30 degree and colder weather. I just never calculate the weather into my fashion plans. I know, it’s probably the first thing that most normal people consider when deciding what to wear. But I never claimed to be normal, and I screw myself over constantly for it. And you would think it would be an easy problem to fix. Just start checking the weather before I get ready. I can literally ask my phone what it’s like outside and have my answer so I could dress accordingly. Simple.

It doesn’t matter though. I’m just not cut out to be normal. Because see, I’ll do that. I’ll check the weather, and then open my closet, prepared to find some appropriate attire. But I’m suddenly blinded to all clothes meant for the current season. In the summer time, all I happen to see in my room are sweaters. Everywhere. I think to myself, I know I have a bunch of tanks and crop tops, where the heck did I put them? I guess I’ll just wear this sweatshirt today. November rolls around and hey! There’s all my sleeveless shirts. Weird! And then my sweaters go invisible to me for the next few months. I don’t get it either.

Oh, it gets worse.

So picture this. You’re in church with your family, the service is going on, and this woman a few rows in front of you starts shaking uncontrollably. And she didn’t catch the Holy Spirit or something weird, no she was having a full-blown seizure. Everyone starts taking notice, and your pastor asks if someone with medical expertise could step in and help. Your mother, a nurse, leaps over the pew, runs over to the woman, and assists a doctor who also ran over.

And then there’s you. Watching all of this go down, shocked and worried for the woman’s life, and giggling uncontrollably in the midst of chaos.

Welcome to my life, folks. I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but for some reason I laugh when I’m sad, scared, worried, or stressed in one way or another. It’s not like I find situations like the one above funny in any way, I just…I don’t know. Science? I’m broken guys, simply put.

I used to always fight the urge to laugh when my parents punished me as a kid. I remember a few occasions where I failed to hold in my giggling and got in more trouble.

I don’t attend funerals…

Inappropriate emotions is apparently a symptom of numerous mental disorders, so let’s hope I’ve reached my cap on crazy. I don’t think this is an unheard of…quirk, that people have. So don’t come at me angry or crying, because I will laugh at you, but only because I care. But you won’t accept that, and I would like to stay friends please. So yeah…stay away.