Adventures in Awkward! Alone! In a bar in Williamsburg, because I'm too scared to go home to my sublet in Harlem!
See! Passive Aggressive texts with new roommates regarding wifi.
Hear! Incessant self-pity and cries for help come from my mouth.
Smell! The body odor as I plan to walk the hotter than fuck streets until dawn.
God, what a pathetic loser. And part of me writes that sentence so you will reply with a half-hearted sentiment that will temporarily alleviate the immense depression that consumes me. But what does that do? A patch on a sinking ship? Maybe.
It's me grasping at straws, throwing whatever sticks at the problem, hoping I can stay afloat for another day. I'm such a fucking loser. I have this mental block. I can't just talk to people, I chastise myself for every miscalculated attempt to integrate with humanity. I feel the need to cry underneath every moment of my existence.
I know I'm fortunate, been lucky, had shit handed to me on a silver platter, but none of that seems to matter. I'm here again, buried so deep in myself and spouting nothing but bitterness. I'm getting drunker and drunker, which at least keeps the hunger at bay for awhile.
I hate everyone too much to function. I have this crazy desire to be social and liked, yet I fucking want everyone to die screaming. I can not stand even myself at this point. This is why people must be made to work until they are near the point of exhaustion, both physical and mental: we can not be trusted with free time.
It's then that we don't even know what to do with ourselves. We must face ourselves and our failures, our short-comings. We see firsthand the horror of who we are. Every flaw is magnified. I hate myself ten thousand times more with every casual glance inwards. I think of people who genuinely like themselves and wish I could fake that kind of delusion for more than a moment.
The fucking weirdo in the corner typing away on his phone. Little do they know what I'm writing. That I've just finished the second to last chapter of my novel. Here I am writing, hoping to be a Beat Poet, in the soulless vacuum of hipsterdom. Irony seeps from the pores of the fake wood panelling.
I have a tab open, which perhaps I should close but where would I even go that would be any better? Nowhere. Hell perhaps. Bed most definitely. But I've got hours til I can safely head up to Harlem. At least three. Maybe I'll just get a pack of smokes, despite it being so hot as to make me seriously contemplate quitting, and walk the entire city until the sun comes up.
Ahh fuck it. The hipsters are breaking open a pinata, one wears it like a hat, while the others take pictures. There's very little difference between the average hardcore hipster and the ultimate douchebag. A delusional shift in style is all.
I've made the requisite bad decision drunken mistake texts and emails. Isolated myself in a corner booth as I judge everyone around me. Hoping they don't notice as I take a drunken headshot of myself. God, what a fucking loser I am (and this time I'm not hoping you'll correct me).
Come stay with me in Jersey when your sublet is up.
ReplyDeleteIt's close to the train station.
Granted it takes a while to get to NYC, but it's not Harlem.
There's also much less hot women than NYC, so there's that to think about too.
Anyway, I just wanted to say I admire your honesty, even if you're being a whiner. Or, as the British say "whinger". See that? I can insult Internationally.
Love,
Jong