I’d Like to File a Complaint Against the Concept of Time

aka, from Barbies to burnout in 3-5 business days.

Originally published on nikaburali.substack.com (June 28, 2025)

When did I become the adult in the room?
Why am I sitting at the grown-up table and not rolling around on the floor, playing with my Barbies, Kinder Surprise and Happy Meal toys? Why is there a glass of wine in my hand instead of an ice-cold glass of Coke?

How come I’m engaged?
Wasn’t I just engaged in building houses and setting fires in Sims 2?
Engaged in an MSN Messenger breakup convo with my internet boyfriend from MySpace?

Whatever happened to my clothes? My blue chucks? The red and black checkered cross-body bag? Where’s my eyeliner? And where the hell are my magazines and band posters? Have you seen my Pokémon cards too, by any chance?

What happened to my daily naps?
When did I stop enjoying my hobbies?
What happened to writing short stories, designing forum banners in Photoshop, playing guitar or the piano, and taking photographs on my DSLR?

When did my hair become so fine and brittle?
When did I start dyeing my roots?
Why is my skin dry and sensitive, where has that oily skin gone?
Who popped all those pimples? And when did those lines on my forehead start to pop up?

When did I start giving fucks about exposing my upper arms in summer?
Wasn’t I just running around in my lilac spaghetti top?
Also, when did all this hair show up? All that hair that needs shaving because society says it does?

When did I start sorting socks by season and stop sorting crayons by color?
When did my aching body parts start to make themselves known?
When did my hip begin making crunching noises like I’m stepping on a bag of chips?
You’re telling me these bruises are from low iron and not from falling off my bike, scooter, or inline skates?
How come walking up a flight of three stairs is the death of me?

When did I stop crying over math homework and start crying over taxes?
When did I swap my CD player for a dual-monitor setup?
When did I go from listening to the same 17 songs in my soft pink bedroom
to listening to them in my fluorescent-bright corporate office?

Hello, it’s me, Karen. I mean, Nika. And I’d like to file a formal complaint against the concept of time.

Where’s the complaint form? My refund? Can I at least get a loyalty coupon?
There was no footnote, no warning, no sign, nada.
Just, boom. My childhood, my adolescence, all gone in the blink of an eye.
Replaced by desensitization, monitors in every size, inner turmoil, a squeaky office chair, and opt-in dental insurance.

Be honest with me.
Are you working with reality? With nostalgia? The harsh truth?
Are you guys in on it all, do you get percentages for each complaint?
Are you, by any chance, related to capitalism, consumerism, or the patriarchy?

Either way, this is unacceptable. I feel betrayed. I’d like to talk to your manager.