Moving Out

Can’t stay here anymore, cooped up in an apartment, doing nothing.

There’s no real driving force for anything in my life. Friends and acquaintances, people I’ve sat down with and talked with non-stop for hours, they have dreams, passions. The guy that got recruited by Harvard before he even left high school, because he was the best squash player in the country. Across all age groups. Trained through congenital kidney failure, compartment syndrome, still managed straight As at school. He’s Jesus to me and every other guy running a self-improvement blog on the Internet.

Or the girl I got stuck on since I met her during the first week of university orientation. Smart, funny, reasonably good-looking. Told me she gets up every morning and goes to class because she wants to learn, because it’s genuinely fun for her to crack open a textbook and absorb the finer details of Saccharomyces or some shit. I run into her on campus all the time, stop and talk for a minute or two, reminded why I leave the apartment instead of completing all my courses behind a bedroom door.

Class starts in just under two weeks. All of the existentialist angst that’s been brewing during the break will disappear like mist under the sun. I’m going to be among people; real, corporeal human beings living their lives around me.

There’s just something about being around other people my age that puts me on edge, stirs my spirits, compels me to do something other than space out in front of a screen all day. This morning, I pack all of my shit into my car and drive off, thinking that it’s time to get the ball rolling, to put some momentum behind all of these resolutions I keep making. I’m dressed in the same clothes I was wearing on the Tinder date. White, tailored fitted shirt, blue trousers, brown leather shoes. You can’t see the wine stains.

I stop at this gigantic shopping mall next to the highway on the way there. I take the final button-up I need to get tailored and some jeans that need fixing. I hand it to this Indian guy who compensates for his lack of English and masculinity with incredible sartorial skill. I haven’t had caffeine or food, so I sit down at a pizzeria, charm the waitress, order a macchiato or whateverthefuck it’s called.

After the inertia of fucking around for days in my jocks watching DotA 2 replays, I’m feeling quite chuffed with myself, acting all adult and shit. I text a picture of my table and the surrounding restaurant to Karen telling her this. Fuck off I’m sleeping, don’t reply. My heart sinks; panicked, distraught. The caffeine starts kicking in; though my entire arm from the elbow downwards is resting on the table, my hand still jitters from side to side. Is she finally getting tired of me, is this going to end like all the others? I manage to dispel my concerns with the calm reminder that it’s just a girl I Skype with, Jesus, calm the fuck down. I eat my pizza while re-reading posts delicioustacos.com. His brutal honesty and relatable writing assuages my anxiety. Bacon, avo, chicken, the frustrations of not getting laid often enough. It tastes good, for the most part.

Refresh Facebook app: the same boring, bland vanilla shit people post day after day. I quote an edgy paragraph about Facebook as a status update to break the monotony for shits and giggles.

You go out, you talk to girls with your thirst. You hear the word “boyfriend” and recoil like a dog hit with a bucket of ice water. Women: if you have a boyfriend, just…die. If you won’t fuck me, why do you exist. You look at facebook. See a thumbnail. Who is that, she’s cute. Oh yeah, that girl who… wait, “so and so is in a relationship with…” Dead. I could have a filter that changes “So and so is in a relationship with to “so and so was pulped by a garbage truck.” “So and so caught a stray bullet in a bus stop drive by. The doctors did their best, but.”

The caffeine is peaking now. Fuck, I should write. Karen might read this; if my post is witty enough it might redeem me waking her up with texts. Why do I care this much, Christ. Pull up the WordPress app, start tapping away with my thumbs for a full 30 minutes in the middle of a mall with a pizza box and a nigh empty glass of water next to me. Get close to finishing, phone vibrates. Hi dearcustomer,Ur garment is ready for collection.

Time to go.

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One thought on “Moving Out

  1. Reading this post reminded me of a post I wrote entirely on my phone when I was at a pizza place. The same thoughts were going through my head. The same doubts. Don’t let them snowball. That never ends well. I’m still learning that one.

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