Holy shit am I mad right now.
Or I was mad, thirty minutes ago. Now I’m hammering this out on my phone in the gym in-between sets of squats.
My ex got into fucking medicine.
My ex, who cried over the phone when she was failing high-school physics. Whose sense of humor was so painfully mundane I died a little bit more inside every time she didn’t get one of my jokes. Whose most insightful comment into any interpersonal problem was ‘everything happens for a reason’.
She is now studying Bachelor of motherfucking Medicine, Bachelor of motherfucking Surgery.
I know this isn’t because she is somehow better than me at the relevant fields. My application was sterling. If I weren’t so frustrated by people in general I would’ve been an excellent doctor. No, when I applied, I got screwed over thrice by administrative horseshit, all of which now acted in her favor.
First, race and gender quotas. On paper, as a white, Afrikaans male, I’m right at the bottom of the list. Born in ’93, the black woman working at Admissions probably figured I had some infantile yet significant hand in Apartheid. My ex is a white, English female, raised in Botswana. That’s one.
Two, though we both did the same curriculum, the passive-aggressive Mickey Mouse bullshit plaguing the admissions process for Cambridge AS-Level students didn’t end until late last year. Though my application had straight-A’s (save for English, ironically, where I was shy 2%), the university only looked at the symbols, as opposed to the percentages. An A meant a flat 80%, a B 70%, and so on. So, despite the string of 80s and 90s, my average came to be somewhere in the high seventies, because of fucking English. Recently, they reversed their decision, looking at percentages only. Because I know my ex is not that smart (“you know I don’t like it when you use words I don’t understand”, I shit you not), I can’t be comforted by the fact that she beat me academically, fair and square. Additionally, she played some bog-standard school sports and did a fundraiser, and probably received a fair amount of points. I was selected for the national team for less-recognized MMA and shoveled shit, piss and blood off of the floors of repurposed shipping containers for eight months at an animal welfare clinic. No points.
Third, my ex’s mother is an oncologist high-up the administrative ladder at the teaching hospital my ex applied to. God knows how many strings that woman pulled after seeing the disappointment on her daughters face after she was rejected.
These aren’t excuses. This is me attempting to nurse narcissistic injury. I don’t even want to be a doctor. But I’m still fucking pissed.
When I heard the news, the week of smooth sailing I’d been having vanished. I’d tore off two new pieces of ass, had intensely enjoyable birthday celebrations with my family, and got the ball rolling on campus. Me and Karen are continually growing closer. Things were good. There’s a reason I wanted to title this post Oasis. But then I stumble on my ex’s Facebook profile and come to this revelation. Suddenly, the familiar duh-duh-dahh sound goes off in my head and I’m back in the trenches busting my ass to be happy. Or the Übermenschen-ideal of happiness so characterized by overachievement. My narcissistic ego compels me to one-up her, to achieve something more ‘admirable’ than getting into med-school and becoming a doctor. Full Professor at a top-10 university, something like that. The world will judge me and I don’t want to be found inferior.
Despite this, life is still a hell of a lot better than it was a week ago. Though I was thankful that I ran into my ex under favorable circumstances, I had a caffeine comedown/fatigue-induced breakdown shortly thereafter, the pain of which approached the first day of the break-up in magnitude. I was horrifically starved of intimacy. Though Skyping with Karen softened the hunger pangs, I need something real, physical, here and now. Fortunately, I got myself satiated, and bounced back to feel like life was exceedingly enjoyable as opposed to shit from wall-to-wall.
Getting laid regret-free imbues me with incredible happiness and baller-tier confidence. I feel bulletproof. Walking around wherever, I feel like I can just sit back and give a slight smirk and the pussy will flow. I know that this is perhaps just an overreaction, a heightened response to the ending of a seven-month dry spell. It probably won’t last long. Or perhaps it will. Sic transit gloria mundi. I don’t care whether or not someone likes me, because there are already three other girls who do. For a period of a day or two my phone vibrated at least once every thirty minutes. Attractive girls inexplicably stricken with the Asperger’s I so often found myself afflicted with when I was lower on the food-chain. I don’t act needy and desperate, I’m bemused and aloof. This makes them like me more. The cycle continues. I’m attractive. People want me. Here’s proof. Validation courses through my veins like premium-grade heroin. Whenever I run low I just open OkCupid and top off.
Ironically, the thing that affected me most was Karen. She said texted me ‘Miss ew’. Historically, I thought she was mellow and relaxed about the whole thing, at least compared to me spilling my affectionate feels constantly. I told her Friday night that I was feeling something that felt like love. At least the kind of love you can feel for someone you’ve never met in person. But it was there. She is goddamn near perfect in every single way, and here she is telling me she misses me. I was over the fucking moon. Still am.