My last day as a 20-something

My god, was that ever hard to write. My. Last. Day. As. A. 20. Year. Old.
For those of you who didn't know, or had no reason to care, Thursday, May 18 is the last day of my third decade. The last age I'll have a 2 in the tens digit (barring fantastic advances in medical technology in the next ... let's say... three years, I doubt I'll be hitting 120...). My final chance to do things that 30-year olds (yuck) just don't do. And what am I going to do? So far, I don't think it's going to be exciting.
Because of my living arrangements, I won't have use of my car.
Because of my financial situation, I will not be travelling.
Because of health reasons, I'll be spending part of it at a doctor's office.
Because of a general malaise, I'll probably not really enjoy it.
I found myself almost crying on the way home from my girlfriend's house today. She made me realise that yes, today already was the last day of my 20s. And sure, this has happened to a few people in history, but, I'm sure that most of them had something to show for their 30 years, be it a job, or (gasp) a career, or, perhaps, a wife or kids or a car they got to drive, or a house. God! A house! What I would do! Painting! Nesting! Gardening! Inviting! Cooking! Hosting! Screaming at the top of my lungs at 4:00a.m. without retribution. Can you imagine?
You see, I am getting old, even if it's just mental. I do want some of that junk. I'm tired of paying asshole after asshole more than 50 per cent of my salary for the right to live somewhere where I have no control over anything, and don't get $10,000, or even $5,000, worth of equity for paying $12,000 a year in rent. What the fuck, or "WTF," as the kids are saying.
But for that, I need a job. I'm so tired of being "overqualified" here in Nova Scotia. I want a job. I don't care if I'm overqualified. I'll still do it. I had an interview at the weekly newspaper in town, and I made their eyes bug out when I gave them an example of one time I showed initiative in a time of newspaper crisis. I was applying to be a copy editor; in reality, I should have been applying to be editor-in-chief. But I would have been chief toilet-licker if they'd just pay me $1000 a month.
I should just pack up and say goodbye to the no-job coast. I like it here, but I think, for my own sake, and the sake of my gradually eroding sanity, it might make sense to get out of here. Any money I save, I end up spending to fly back to Alberta for family events, so it might make sense to move there, make money, keep it, buy a house there, live there, get all that other stuff, be bored, watch sprawl and urban deterioration progress from the inside out, die of boredom, buy a cemetary plot 20 years before that in anticipation, and then shoot myself to avoid it all.
Or stay here.
We'll see. All I know is that tradespeople get more money than God spent on Jesus' first birthday present per hour, and there's probably a program somewhere where it's a free course because they're so desperate for workers.
Then I could live until I chopped one of my arms off in heavy machinery, stump around town and freak out kids, and ... shit. This option sucks, too.
Maybe I'll just keep looking for journalism work. Despite what happened to Dose, which employed most of the journalists I know, I think there's work out there for people willing to do it. Small town newspapers might not be too bad. 9 out of 10 editors end up as mayor, anyway, I hear.