Makenzi Johnson has no idea what she’s doing
By Makenzi Johnson, lifestyles editor
I have a confession: I don’t know what I’m doing.
I don’t know how electricity works. I stick to the explanation I got in third grade: lightning-bolt-like waves travel through cords and magically turn on the lights when we flip a switch. I don’t know how to work my MacBook or iPhone. I get a notification biweekly that I’m out of storage and I can buy 50 GB more for 99 cents a month, whatever that means.
I don’t know what my dad does for work. It might be marketing. I see the tire pressure warning on the dashboard of my red Nissan Rogue. I don’t know what that means, but I check it every time I drive over a bump.
I don’t know the purpose of “pre-workout.” I tell people that I’m an empath. I don’t know what that means. Maybe, it means I cry a lot. I can’t fall asleep at night unless it’s pitch black and silent, but I’ll accidentally fall asleep in a busy, fluorescent-lit room at three in the afternoon. It’s a midday cat nap.
I FaceTime my dad every time I cook chicken to double check if I cooked it all the way through. I call my grandma every time I get sick or hurt. Her 40 years of nursing experience beats me Googling how to pull a thumbtack out of my foot.
Why is Shrek the epitome of Generation Z cinematography? Watch Midsommar and then talk to me about good movies. I don’t know how to ski, but call me the blonde version of Shaun White when I’m snowboarding.
How does Spotify know which song to play next on shuffle? Is the Government watching me? How does Bluetooth work?
I’ve done pretty fine on my own thus far considering I don’t know how light switches work. Maybe one day I’ll marry an electrician and find out. For now, I’ll keep calling family members until I can stop saying, I don’t know what I’m doing.
