“Ah! Friday five o'clock! I'm ready to kick my heels up and relax for a change! I think I'm gonna go camping.”
“Ah! An end of the one misery and a beginning of the other misery! Spending the week locked up in a fluorescent box staring at a computer is now going to give way to me spending the weekend in my poorly lit apartment staring at a different glowing box, maybe pausing long enough to put pants on as the overworked delivery boy delivers me my greasy Chinese food, but probably not, and definitely not tipping him. This sedentary existence will be punctuated by me grabbing my heart and panicking in vague cardiac pains occasionally, quickly realizing that it's only my body trying to make me seem more important than I know I am.”
“What you guys got planned for the weekend?”
“I know my weekend will be the far superior one of what anyone here will do, so I will force you to lie to me about your plans.”
“Well, Kyle, I'll probably catch that Pinter play at that theater on twelfth, then finish that book I got about the early American revolutionary thinkers. Have you read A Problem of Culture? It's fascinating. Anyway, on Sunday I'll take a walk in the park and clean up my apartment. I got my brother coming to visit on Monday.”
“I haven't actually read a book in years. My real intentions are to get a case of Mexican beer and take all the sheets off of my bed, lie in it in my underwear which I won't change until Monday morning, and contemplate the ceiling fan above my bed while a comedy show plays silently in my darkened bedroom, probably something British, like Mitchell and Webb. Eventually I'll be drunk and sleepy enough to realize the juxtaposition of my miserable life and the humor glaring at me from the silent television, and cry for about an hour before falling asleep, spilling my beer onto my naked mattress and entangling myself in my stained, crunchy duvet. I will wake up, urinate into the kitchen sink, and eat a sandwich I had prepared for this past Monday's lunch but forgotten about, and spend the rest of the weekend clutching my stomach in gassy agony when I realize, yet again, that things really can go bad in the refrigerator.”
“Awesome, Gordon! How about you, Debbie?”
“Well, I think I'll take that weekend trip to DC. I've always wanted to see the monuments and museums, and we only live an hour away, it's a shame to only see such an important place once or twice a year. I'll check out the museums tomorrow and the monuments on Sunday, it's supposed to be really sunny then. And I really want to check out that new vegetarian restaurant that opened last month!”
“On my way home tonight I will buy the cheapest wine I can find, pizza rolls, ice cream, and fill up my stolen xanax prescription. I will spend tonight eating horrible things, drinking as much as possible, and spiking it with the pills. Tomorrow I will continue this pattern, but I will add the toying with razor blades, first just holding the packet, then opening them and removing that strip of brown paper from one of them, forcing me to stare into the gaping maw of my own interminable depression as I gaze into my bloated, puffy face in their gleaming metal. On Sunday however, I will starve myself as punishment and scream at my own reflection, angry that I can't force myself to do the simplest thing in the world, ending this charade that is my existence and finally putting myself out of my own misery, either eating the whole bottle or finally slicing my arms open in my bathtub. I will print out and burn my suicide note no less than four times during this period.”
“Excellent! Bill, what do the young people do on the weekends these days?”
“Well, I'll probably head over to Hilligans, flirt a while, maybe chat someone up. I'm not attached to anyone, and I enjoy playing the field, so I may find myself... getting a bit lucky. Hehehe!”
“I have no interpersonal skills. But that's OK, because I am currently downloading twenty gigabytes of hardcore pornography, mostly about the degradation of females, but I have chosen some German shepherd/woman porn to watch as well. As my increasing arousal mounts, I will masturbate like a crazy chimp on speed, first watching a woman take over fifty loads of semen into her mouth until she gags and vomits, is then forced to eat dog food, and finally watching her being forced to perform oral sex on a dog, presumably the one she stole the food from. I will climax, my excitement will subside immediately, and I will be consumed by such shame and hatred for both myself and the female sex that I will delete the porn from my computer, which I will download again about six hours later after I view something mildly arousing on HBO. I will weakly masturbate yet again, with slightly more acceptance not only of my own sad, sad life, but also of the degradation that some women put themselves through to fill out a contract that they had been duped into signing, and by virtue of that contract gotten a horrible drug addiction. However, when viewed against my life, a drug addiction seems like a basket of sunshine and roses and needles.”
“You dog you! Bill, what I wouldn't give to be young again! Well, you guys have fun! I'm off to my apartment. See ya monday!”
“The only thing that will save us is either a zombie apocalypse or a nuclear bomb that one of us has hidden up our noses. Someone please set it off! No? Fuck.”
Song of teh post: Liar, by The Damned
Hope of teh post: Hope? Seriously?
Grad school is exactly like this--especially: “Well, Kyle, I'll probably catch that Pinter play at that theater on twelfth, then finish that book I got about the early American revolutionary thinkers. Have you read A Problem of Culture? It's fascinating. Anyway, on Sunday I'll take a walk in the park and clean up my apartment. I got my brother coming to visit on Monday."
ReplyDeleteSometimes I just wanna tell them I know they're full of shit. Alas... I do not. Instead, I sob and mourn for the part of me that still has any drive to do things I might enjoy.