Wake up, Kevin, you sound like a malfunctioning Roomba stuck under a coffee table.

Jesus Christ, you’re thirty years old and asking if it’s “too late” to grow up? The only thing too late is your puberty, apparently.

Let me get this straight: You’ve had three decades to figure out how to boil water and not trap yourself inside a running car, and your proudest adult skill is knowing how to Google? Congratulations, you’re a sentient paperweight with Wi-Fi.

Look, Kevin, being an adult isn’t about mastering tax software or buying the right spatula — it’s about owning your idiocy like it’s a goddamn timeshare in Florida. And by the sound of it, you’ve already bought the deluxe package with a view of the landfill.

You think your cereal-in-a-mug lifestyle makes you a failure?

No, Kevin. It makes you normal.

This country’s run by half-wits in cargo shorts who think “refinancing” is when you buy a used couch and spray it with Lysol.

Adulthood isn’t about doing it right — it’s about doing it anyway. Fumble through the forms. Burn a few dinners. Let your credit score develop its own tragic backstory. Just stop whining about it like a half-melted candle at a birthday party for one.

Want to grow up? Then stop asking permission and start screwing up on purpose. That’s how we all learned — by setting fire to something, crying about it, then pretending we meant to do that.

You’re not defective, Kevin. You’re just preheated.

So grab a spatula, file your taxes three months late, and start yelling at your appliances like a real man.

Now get off my brain,
Pops