What The Fuck am I doing with My Life
Hello dear friends! It’s Pey and welcome back to drunk on couture.
Today we’re discussing the question every mid to late twenty something asks themselves at least once a day while enjoying a shower beer:
What the actual fuck am I doing with my life?
Personally, I think about this question constantly. Like religiously. I toss the thought around in my brain at least once a day while pretending I have everything all figured out.
I’ve been in the hospitality industry or “hospo” as we Aussie cunts call it for almost a decade now. Which is horrifying because mentally I’m still 19, emotionally I’m 42, and physically I feel like an overworked chip and dale with lower back pain.
As much as I genuinely love hospitality and know I’m good at it, I can’t help but wonder… am I meant for more? Is my brain just gaslighting me because social media has convinced us all we should own three businesses, have abs, and meditate at sunrise by age 25? Or is it actually my gut telling me I’m destined for something bigger than serving drunk people and carrying espresso martinis for the rest of my fabulous little life?
The older I get, the louder that question becomes. Every birthday feels less like “yay cake!” and more like getting stabbed directly in the cooch by myself holding a life clock.
And no, I’m not writing this as some dramatic diary entry after a bottle of wine although that absolutely would have helped the creative process. I’m writing this because I know SO many people feel exactly the same way. We’re all floating around in the same busted little bussy boat pretending we have five year plans when in reality we’re one minor inconvenience away from moving countries or starting a blog. Oh wait….. I did that
Now don’t get me wrong I’m incredibly grateful for hospitality. It’s given me some of the best people, memories, and life skills imaginable. When I first started at this big chain lounge/restaurant , I was shy, awkward, and weirdly intimidated by confident men. Now? Babe. After throwing drunk idiots twice my age out on a Wine Wednesday, I developed emotional resilience, social skills, and metaphorical chest hair.
Hospo hardens you. It forces you to grow up fast. Everyone should work in hospitality at least once in their life because nothing builds character faster than getting verbally abused by a woman named Karen because her lemon water isn’t hot enough.
But the problem with hospitality is it’s very easy to get comfortable. The money can be decent, the lifestyle is fun, and before you know it, ten years have passed and your sleep schedule is as consistent as a whore going to church.
And honestly? Compared to a lot of careers, it’s relatively accessible. You can walk into a serving job with little experience, work your ass off, climb quickly, and make pretty solid money. That’s not me saying it’s easy because dealing with the general public takes A LOT out of you.
A lot of us in hospo workers go to school while working, then somehow end up right back in full time hospitality because… why wouldn’t we? Sometimes we’re making more money than our friends with degrees.
Still, making decent money doesn’t automatically make you fulfilled. Feeling stuck is a different kind of exhaustion. It’s like your soul is stuck in a pair of wet jeans.
So lately I’ve been trying to figure myself out.
Six months ago, my best friend Steele woke up one morning and decided to move across the world to Australia the land of the hot, fit and party loving people. I had absolutely zero hesitation. I’d been craving change for ages whether I admitted it or not, so within months we booked flights, blacked out at multiple goodbye parties, and started a new life in Melbourne.
And let me tell you something I fully thought moving countries would magically fix me. I thought I’d land in Australia and suddenly have this cinematic self discovery moment where I’d become hotter, happier, and spiritually enlightened. Maybe I’d meet a 6’2 golden-skinned lawyer who surfs on weekends and calls me babe.
Unfortunately, none all of that happened. Especially not the lawyer part.
But I have learned a lot about myself here. Maybe not life changing revelations, but enough to realize I don’t actually know what I want yet and that’s okay.
Two weeks ago, after a particularly aggressive drinking weekend and a full week of hangxiety induced self-hatred, I called my friend in full dramatic crisis mode and announced,
I think I want to go to law school.
Now let’s unpack how deeply fucking random that is.
I don’t particularly like school. I hate structure. I barely understand what lawyers actually do outside of yelling objection in TV shows. So why did my brain land on law?
Because it sounds respectable. It makes money. It doesn’t involve math or science (absolutely the fuck not) and society pats you on the back for it.
My friend, asked a few simple questions:
What are your hobbies?
What are you passionate about?
What actually makes you happy?
And honestly? I didn’t have amazing answers.
I know I love fashion. I love people. I love storytelling, networking, chaos, attention, having a cheeky cockie with pals, and making people feel seen. But beyond that? I wasn’t sure.
So I sat with it for a while. Reflected. Spiraled. Romanticized my suffering a bit.
And somehow… I landed here. Writing this blog.
Maybe this becomes something. Maybe it doesn’t. But for the first time in a while, something feels exciting instead of just safe.
I think there are a few things I’ve realized about this whole “what the fuck am I doing with my life” crisis:
24 is the new 19. We lost years to COVID, the economy is in shambles, nobody can afford a house, and half of us still feel like emotionally unstable teenagers with better eyebrows.
Constantly asking yourself what you’re doing with your life is actually self sabotage.
You’re not going to wake up one random Tuesday with all the answers downloaded into your brain. You figure it out by trying things, failing publicly, embarrassing yourself, and doing it anyway.You cannot sit around waiting for your dream life to magically arrive.
Do the scary thing. Apply for the job. Move countries. Start the blog. Post the video. Wear the slutty outfit. Flirt with the hot bartender. Life is genuinely too short to spend it terrified of looking stupid.
Because maybe you fail. Maybe it flops horribly. Maybe people judge you.
But at least you fucking lived.
Anyway my gorgeous little degenerates, thank you so much for taking time out of your hopefully sex filled day to read drunk on couture.
I’ll catch you on the flip side.
XX
Pey