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.

A Triumph Over Failure

I almost died eating an apple this morning.

It was easily the most disheartening moment of my week.

I went shopping last week, people. For groceries. I bought fruit; fruit that I intended to consume for the sake of my health. Because I care and stuff.

How exciting is that?


It’s a new start. A new me. A better me. I was ready. I was stoked.

I was on my way to work. And before I left the house I thought, hey, you can have an apple for breakfast, you healthy fruit-eating, early morning-waking, awesome person, you! So I grabbed an apple and walked out. I bite in to the apple and I’m like, yes. This is everything it is supposed to be. I am eating fruit. How long’s it been since I ate fruit? It’s perfectly sweet, but not too sweet. Watery to make me feel quenched for my morning commute. I’m biting it apart and it makes me feel like a ferocious lion tearing through life at its seams for my sustenance. Except I wasn’t lion enough and the stupid apple attacked me back.

By the time I reached the bus stop, I was coughing and choking with seemingly no end in sight. In between bites of the apple, as I tried to take a breath, juice from the apple decided to replace the air I intended on inhaling. And juice does not belong in lungs. Air does. Where the heck was any air? Where did the juice come from? Stop. Ow. No. Is it over…? Okay let me take another bit—*COUGH COUGH* AAAGGHHHHHH! WHY?

I was choking for like three blocks. I threw that God-forsaken apple away less than halfway through eating it because I was that frustrated.

Am I that far gone? I’ve been without fruit so long that I no longer have the skill it takes to walk and eat a fruit? And that takes skill okay. You may not know you possess it, but if the above situation has never happened to you then good for you, all coordinated and whatnot. You’re going places. Far places. With fruit. And I’m proud of you. Very disappointed in myself, though.

But that’s alright. I’m not going to let one incredibly pathetic failure to accomplish a basic human function get me down! I can’t live the rest of my life eating fruit while sitting down! I have places to be, I’m on the go. I’ve…I’ve gotta TRAIN.

So I’m not used to eating fruit anymore. I can reacquire that ability. And I want to. So I will. You know what? This is the perfect opportunity to finally use that gym membership I’ve had for 3 months and never gone. Yeah. Yeahhhhh.

Me, a treadmill, and a bag of apples.

I can do this. I’ll be going to work everyday, confidently eating my fruit, all nourished and energized for the rest of the day. I can’t wait. I’m determined.

Maybe I’ll even move to the stairmaster in time.