Limbo is a place of divine judgement, an ethereal waiting room where the soul is sent to receive its destiny, waiting for the almighty LinkedIn to assign it a place in the next life. Limbo is where the fateless seek some kind of salvation, praying for answers to come from an external force. No longer can the youthful take refuge in the context of their lives. Every benign action that was once justifiable becomes suddenly just pathetic. There is no such thing as earned laziness anymore. One can’t wake up after 10am without thinking words like absolute and failure. Sleeping in becomes just this supine endurance of guilt. And it doesn’t help that people constantly inform me that my life has only just begun, because a) Look at my nut sack, I’d beg to differ, and b) It feels like I shouldn’t still be here, like my brain expected it all to end after graduation and now is seriously confused that it didn’t. It’s the same kind of bewildered awe that sparks after you’ve been wiping your ass for too long and have to stop and think: But how is there still more? Because it’s always at this point when the important decision arises: Keep aimlessly wiping, or pull trousers back up and move on with life?