Musings: Raging at Strangers

I’m driving home from campus at around 01:30AM after spending seven hours on the internet fucking about, reading random Wikipedia articles, watching a full-length documentary on Vladimir Putin and browsing through dozens of OkCupid profiles.

Anyway, I’m driving home through this town where the university and the bars and clubs are separated by one to three blocks on average. I see people ambling back from a night out. In the streets there were groups of dolled-up girls walking home, illuminated under the streetlight, black dresses, long hair draped over their shoulders, probably having blueballed many a hopeful solicitor in the hours just past. Less common were the couples making the natural migration to a bed in a dorm or apartment or house, their inebriated gait stabilized by having their arms pinned around each other. Here and there, there’s a dude or two walking back alone, no doubt somber with disappointment.

The route I take back to my apartment takes me past this square which contains the entrances to two nightclubs and three bars. There’s a speedbump in the road right next to it, so you are forced to slow down momentarily, and you can’t help but look. You see groups of people milling about, a guy here and there with his arms around a girl, trying to kiss her, trying to get her to come back home with him, with her half-making out, half-resisting, trying to decide whether or not this is going to be his lucky night.

During most of the five-minute drive home, I was shouting at myself, vocalizing my frustrations that were essentially caused by the fact that they were having fun and I wasn’t. While I masturbated every night, extending my four-month dry spell by another day, there were dimwitted weedy fuckwits having sex with nubile nymphs who’d just left high school. I knew that if I put on my best clothes and cologne, brought a friend or two for ‘social proof’ and drank heavily to suspend my intellectual elitism, that I could probably have my member gripped by the tightness of youth within a week. But I wasn’t, I’d placed my priorities elsewhere, and now I was fucking raging because of it.

The thing is, normally, I couldn’t give two shits about the alcohol-fueled fornication of my peers. I was comfortable with the fact that my dick wasn’t one of the lucky few shtumping the drunk, beautiful blonde chicks errynight. I know where I’m headed in terms of sex and relationships, I know that the kind of girl I’m going to be happy with doesn’t get drunk and has her tongue down a new guys throat every week. While my peers are burning money and health on alcohol and meaningless sex, I’m building myself up brick by brick, investing in a better future, creating a life that has meaningful, lasting happiness. Jealousy and envy are absent from my life because I’m doing what I know is going to make me happy.

Except I’m not.

While drunken promiscuity and indolent web-surfing both belong to the realm of the ‘unhealthy, unsustainable and unproductive’, the former seems like a much better choice. If you’re going to burn time and set yourself up for future regret, getting shitfaced and your dick wet is much more preferable than spending hours reading useless information which you’ll forget the next day.

In a way, I’m being more pathetic than the angsty dance of intoxicated courtship that I so look down upon.

My life bounces between two personas: the noble, stoic, ambitious young man who puts his nuts in the meatgrinder each day to obtain what so many men dream of having, or the lazy, pathetic deadbeat who epitomizes wasted potential. Though I’ve spent much of my life being the latter, I’ve come a long way, gradually rooting myself deeper and deeper in the former.

But holy shit, when I make mistakes, when I inevitably fall of the wagon from time to time, it fucking hurts. For that day or week or month that I don’t have my shit together, I’m indistinguishable from the mediocre masses that piss their lives away on their inevitable spiral towards death. Drifting through life, seeing opportunities in the form of careers or women or having delts like cannonballs pass me by because I lacked the grit to stay the course, it claws and tears at my soul like nothing else can.  Every grain that falls through the hourglass is another drop of Chinese water torture.

Maybe I should stop by the square next time and find myself a nice chubby just to take the edge off.

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