This Could Be Your Life
Am I happy? No.
Am I sad? Not exactly.
Am I living? Maybe.
What I do know for certain is that I’m not having enough sex lately. There, I typed it. It’s real now. Wait, am I having any sex at all? Gee, it’s hard to tell if there’s even a difference anymore. The point is that sometimes five days go by before I stop and remember that I have a penis. “Hi, hi, sorry to have forgotten you there. Been terribly busy lately. You know how it is. We’ll hang out soon, promise.” Liar, liar, chastity belt on fire.
Most parties you go to feel like a labored dance but you know this already, don’t you? Saying the word “hello” has never felt harder and then you drink and drink and drink until you feel weightless enough to say goodbye. Getting an invite to a birthday party these days is like receiving a death sentence. I am not going to your fucking birthday. I love you though. Call me.
Some parties make you want to act your actual age though which is nice. Instead of the usual dragging, the time will float by in a pleasurable manner. Before you know it, it’s 1 a.m. and you have yet to experience any hints of dread or anxiety. Now it’s 2 a.m. and you’re still having fun and meeting new people. By 4 a.m., you better have found your new life partner or, at the very least, a new best friend because it’s past your damn bedtime. Oh, screw it, let’s watch the sun come up just like they do in the movies. (Psst, these are the reasons why you go out at all, to feel young, but you obviously understand this. Now go sleep in your party dress.)
You see an ad on the subway that says “You didn’t move to NYC to stay home.” Shit. You didn’t? You’re going home right now. How did they know?
Your dad thinks you’re always drunk and your mother worries about the city making you too sad. They’re almost wrong.
Read poems from the 60s and 70s and wonder if the internet has ruined your life.
You are happy almost all the time actually. Don’t be dramatic. You just worry that you’re not living enough LIFE which, I mean I guess you’ll never really know until you’re old or dead so just shut the hell up in the meantime and try to go outside as much as possible.
You have a job. Or maybe a job has you. You know, like it’s held you prisoner or something and won’t let you go until you win the lottery or find someone rich who can love you and deposit money into your account whenever you blink.
People really need a translator to accommodate all of the lies and bullshit they’re spewing out into the universe. “Let’s do lunch” means “Let’s try very hard to never speak again, you insane crazy person!” “Congratulations on your new job!” translates to “Give me your job, motherfucker.” I mean, it’s all very funny and ha, ha, ha, because everyone knows what’s really going on here. These conversations mean nothing to no one. The only reason why we humor them in the first place is because we can’t think of a reasonable way out.
Grow up and blow away.
Everyone hates us, that’s fine, we’re used to that, but I do find the constant criticism of our generation to be a bit uncouth. Don’t they understand that the only person you’re allowed to hate these days is yourself?
A | A | A
Will it feel the same when you tell me you love me over the phone? Will the peacefulness of those words still floor me from thousands of miles away?
I was conflicted. It felt like one eye was trying to look away while the other soaked it up. I felt the heat rise in my face. This was wrong. But it didn’t feel wrong.
Any nervous flyer knows the progression of descending panic: bile, sweaty palms, social awkwardness and self-induced sedation.
I know how it feels when the weight of darkness crashes down onto your chest in the middle of the night, and how you wish things would stop spinning because the axis seems tilted now. I know, love, I know.