I want to be funny. I want to be ironic. I want this post to have a punchline somewhere. I’m in such a goddamn world of hurt right now, I wish I could just laugh it off and know that shit’s going to be okay.
I moved back to campus three days ago with the intention of returning to a place I’ve always found vexing in one way or another. Be it that I’m surrounded by people my age, or the free availability of good work environments, or perhaps just wanting to get an early start to what was no doubt going to be a very tumultuous year. I thought it was going to be a positive change.
Well, there was a definitive fucking change, alright. It took about a day before I was beset by what felt like soul-crushing unhappiness and loneliness. There was no internet at my flat, so that meant no video games; my gym contract only changed to the local gym at the start of February, so no exercise; I had yet to make plans with my friends to meet up, so I was socially isolated; and I’d yet to complete preparation for an anatomy exam that I need to write but I doubt will happen this month due to some administrative absent-mindedness.
With the rationality afforded by writing this down, I can look back and see the apparent cause: debt. All of the things I’d neglected to do during the break have caught up with me.
Every single time I write one of these posts, I feel like a broken record. It’s the same problem with the same cause, with the rest being irrelevant detail.
I guess this time things were just hammered home a lot fucking harder.
Towards the end of yesterday, I text a friend of mine who’d recently got back to town and asked him if he wanted to hang out. He said cool, and proposed going to the uni cinema for a free screening since he was poor as fuck. On the drive to pick him up, I notice that the town is packed with the new first-year arrivals, especially chicks, and I know that even if I have to buy this guy a couple rounds, we need to check this out.
We end up meeting his friend at a bar and start going to this other venue nearby. A popular band was playing, so the place was pretty packed.
While I tried to subtly stick to a single pint of beer, my friends insisted that I get drunk. I was bought a good deal of hard liquor and, not wanting to be an asshole, promptly chugged it. Bad fucking idea.
There’s nothing intrinsically wrong with alcohol; it’s peoples’ choice how they use it, and if they fuck up while inebriated, that’s their problem. The reason I don’t like it is that I hate the idea of stumbling around and babbling like a retard or sitting in a bar with my friends staring at my outstretched palm because sensory gating allows me to disregard everything except the fact that whoa dude, that’s like, my fucking hand.
Unfortunately, however, I made the mistake of getting relatively sauced.
So I texted my ex.
She’s joining me on this campus this year. Unsurprisingly, she didn’t get into med school, and now she’s studying the exact same degree I am, the Bachelor of Science I jokingly refer to the as the medical rejects degree, the one people do where they re-apply for med school each year with new marks to try and take another shot at getting in.
I texted her asking if she’d been back in town yet. Yes, she said, back since the 22nd. I asked if she were out that night, she said no, she’s staying in a residence, and they’re not allowed out yet. I said that sucks, and added that my friends had been trying to get me drunk and were about to feed me Burger King. I also asked her what she was studying. I was probably expecting her to reply with oh ok great so you’re drunk, let me sneak out and we can totally fuck at your place. Instead she replied with the name of the degree, and told me to enjoy my night and that she was going to sleep. This all happened in the space of like, seven minutes. Suddenly, I feel nauseous. And not from the alcohol. It’s the same panic attack I felt when I thought I saw her walking by when I was eating in the cafeteria two days ago, except this time attenuated by inebriation.
It stung because I know that when someone cares about conversing with someone else, bedtime doesn’t fucking matter. But that’s the thing. Why the fuck was I caring whether or not she cares. She is bad fucking news. She embodies everything that’s wrong with me. When we were together, everything was easy, getting my own way was nigh guaranteed. There was no incentive or stimulation for growth. She was someone I had good sex with regularly and exchanged ‘I love you’s with because I thought the warm, fuzzy feelings brought on my physical intimacy was what love is. Coupled with sitting on my ass all day watching series or playing video games, she constituted this insulated little bubble where I could remain completely ignorant of the fact that my precious youth was being pissed away.
And now I’m back on campus, and life is new and strange and scary and hard and difficult, so when I get drunk, that huge part of me that still lives in the time immediately before, during, and after the break-up on the 22nd of April 2013 pipes up and declares that I go poking around in the last safe place even though that shit ended nine fucking months ago.
This year, the stakes are astronomically high. I have to maintain an 80%+ average in order to even be considered for admittance to the other university that I really want to attend. On top of that, I need to actively contribute to the research that so tragically fell by the wayside during the break in the wake of trying to get anatomy done. The trip to the US needs to be organized; the flight is being bought with miles so there’s no cancelling the ticket, that shit needs to be sorted out now. I have to find a girlfriend or someone I can be intimate with so that I don’t go fucking nuts. That, plus cooking, cleaning, guitar and gym.
And since she’s studying an identical degree, I’m probably going to be running into my ex at least half a dozen times during the next few months.
I know I said A Storm is Coming. But I didn’t think it’d be here this fucking early.