Cabin fever really, really fucks with me.
My MacBook died on, what was it, Wednesday? I take it in, standing in the iStore amidst the bustling crowds of the financially overburdened. They tell me the hard-drive broke. The expensive-as-fuck, solid-state drive just said fuck it, I’m out and obliterated itself.
This felt unfair. The worst I stored on it was one porn video, right there smack-bang in the ‘Videos’ folder. The title was in Spanish. It was amateur, of a couple. Harmless shit. There were no barely-legal teens harmed in the making. There is no cause for digital karmic rebalance.
Anyway. I wasn’t terribly perturbed, since all of my academic work consists of flash cards that are backed up on the ‘net and various other devices. I lost perhaps 12 hours of other work, but all things considered, I wasn’t punished nearly severely enough for ignoring the daily warnings to back up my system. I thought I lucked out: I could fetch my old Dell monstrosity from my flat and use it in the meantime. What’s more, since the cooling system on it is fucked, I also had an excuse to haul my 27” monitor, keyboard and Razer™ Naga® Gaming Mouse with me. This meant that I could leave my laptop closed and upside down, vents facing upward and unobstructed, and ‘work’ (read: play DotA 2) with ease. I also had an excuse not to go into the office.
So I thought things were looking up.
Except, for some reason, the laptop’s performance slowed to a crawl whenever the battery was charging. Running on battery power, without the AC, it runs fine. Plug it in, and it’s a fucking toaster.
This meant no DotA 2.
It also meant working and studying was a fucking drag. Having to wait several seconds (jesus christ) for the scroll bar to move up an inch, anything graphically intensive crippling the machine, opening documents and applications taking ages, those sort of atrocities.
So here I was, sitting in an apartment, with every usual avenue of occupation wholly eliminated. I didn’t gym or play guitar either, for some reason. However, there were two relatively new forms of entertainment. First, I introduced the guy I’m staying with to DotA 2, he gets addicted (perhaps my MacBook dying was karma working in advance), and we tag-team his laptop fucking shit up with his ultra-low MMR. Second, I Skyped with Karen nearly every day.
This was the girl I mentioned here, the one who embodies compatibility.
Our virtual correspondence transitioned from textual back-and-forths on OkCupid to frequent video calling and texting, increasingly becoming laden with feels along the way. Well, my feels, anyway.
What’s happening with Karen is effectively straight-up what I described here. She is that girl. She’s everything that I’m fucking looking for. Were I in Boston, I’d be so enamored that all of my smooth rationality would disappear in the wake of all-consuming infatuation. Fortunately, both the distance and the sterile environment of virtual correspondence affords me the capacity to calmly monitor myself and keep my shit in check. Other guys haven’t been so lucky.
A common theme in our discussions is that of the guys she’s been involved with during the last year or two. What happens is, after as little as making out once or twice, an otherwise cool and reasonable guy is overcome with feels and plays the ‘I want a serious relationship card’ relentlessly. When she first explained this to me during our conversations on OkCupid, I gave her my take on it.
And about them getting too serious too soon: it’s because they like you so much. That naturally sounds obvious and clichéd, but you might at times forget the effect you have on men. I’d go so far as to wager that had I started dating you, I’d be so swept up in the excitement of finally meeting someone who has the trifecta of looks, intelligence and charm, that I’d find myself abandoning any form of subtlety and tact in favor of holding on as tight as possible. Men find someone like you, and they’re terrified of losing the chance to make something happen, so they try and ‘seal the deal’ as quickly as they can. Ironically this stifling clinginess instantly kills any sort of attraction, and things end rapidly. I actually explained the same phenomenon to a friend of mine. She was heavily into the sciences, the internet, video games, hipster/nerd culture, and was frustrated that each of the guys she’d gone out with had started spilling their feels before third date. I told her that I could only imagine that these lonely, typically desk-bound nerds had found someone that they considered ‘perfect’ for them, and proceeded to become enamored to the point of infatuation.
Shit was further exacerbated by the fact that many of the candidates stepping up to the plate were in the process of completing the latter half of their twenties, so the socio-biological urge to settle down was manifesting itself in a myriad of disadvantageous ways.
I listened to Karen and her stories of these guys with a mixture of pity, amusement and solidarity. I knew exactly what the guys were going through, and that it was nigh guaranteed that I’d fall prey to the same predicament. For the time being, however, I enjoyed talking to someone who was fun to be around in every single aspect (barring the tactile, of course). What’s more, she reads this blog, so the cards are perennially plain: she knows I like her, that my feels continue to grow, and that I intend to meet with her both in July and when I settle in Boston to continue my graduate studies. In the meantime, our online correspondence continues to supply mutual insight, laughs, and affection.
But that shit is way too Disney to be true, so of course something fucked up.
With the last week or so consisting solely of staying in the apartment, playing video games, consuming caffeine in the shittiest way possible (Coke and pre-workout throughout the day with little actual meals or fucking exercise in-between), my mind was continually devolving into a stupor; the cabin fever I was referring to. Barring the purchase of groceries and a misguided Tinder date, I pretty much lost complete touch with the outside world. After stumbling out of a chubby’s apartment half-drunk on wine, I spam Karen with texts saying that I need to Skype right the fuck now. We did, and shit was great, consoling as fuck, but my emotional clusterfuck of neediness didn’t stop there.
I tried using a blog post as a sort of cathartic release when I was crapped out on caffeine and self-pity. What resulted was the introduction to Raging Insecurities, Vol. I:
To make things worse, I end up sending this to Karen. I don’t know why.
I wasn’t being myself, obviously. But it’s still fucking embarrassing thinking about it.
On the upside, we Skyped afterwards, and all my concerns were laid to rest. Despite that, I want to get back on track, so that this type of Mickey-Mouse bullshit never happens again. Though I doubt I’ll manage to pull something particularly catastrophic, I don’t want to jeopardize what could otherwise be a very fun, very fulfilling July.