One of the worst adult decisions I have ever made was moving back in with my parents.
I was 27 (one month shy of 28) and had been living in Chicago for the past two years. The main reasons, or excuses, I had for moving back home included the following:
1. My roommate wanted to move out of our cold, crappy, mice and cockroach infested apartment, and into a warmer, more expensive place where the refrigerator wasn’t sitting on top of a block of wood and the only living residents were me and him.
2. My computer literally took 10 minutes to boot up and kept giving me that blue screen of death.
3. My temporary data entry job was ending in March and NO ONE*, not even the biodegradable dog poop bag company located a block away from my apartment would hire me.
*I actually trained for this job at a doggy daycare service where I picked up dogs throughout the city and dropped them off at the end of the day; however, I tend to block that memory from my mind.