On The Summer When Nothing Happened At All

It was my plan to have the best summer of my life. I would make the conscious decision, to have it better than any summer yet. It was my plan to do drugs, go to crazy parties, explore my inner sexual goddess, meet new people, have steamy love affairs, take my own breath away, really live like Larry.

I remember the start of my summer. It was May, I had spent the previous night working non-stop on a final paper for a class I cared little for. Once I finally hit submit on that nine-hour extravaganza, I went to sleep and when I awoke, I was a new me. In all my summer freedom eagerness, the first step I took was shaving my vagina. I remember this moment clearly. I whipped out my trusty hand mirror, opened a fresh razor, squatted in the shower, trimmed my hoo-hah, and recited the many alluring pick-up lines I would use to find a temporary mate. Oh, yes, I would be ready.

It would be a summer for the books, I was sure of it.

And now, here we are. It is August and I am finally ready to report to you, the transformative summer experience I endured.

Let’s just say, absolutely nothing happened.

I got a steady job, made money, and maintained a regular fitness routine which I am actually quite proud. 

Ah, yes. Nothing serves the writer more than a repertoire of zero life experience to draw inspiration from.

I do recall telling myself that I would hold off on writing until the summer had come to an end. At the time, I became convinced that I would have an uber amount of stories and lessons to write about. Hell, I would even be able to write a book based off of my encounters. It’s satisfying to find that my life is just as uninteresting and uneventful as it had been those months prior.

But I love writing, and I refuse to let a whole lot of nothing stop me from writing a whole lot of something. I may not have had the steamy affairs or the crazy nights spent out, but what I do have is an honest account of what it truly means to be a failing human being. Now, I don’t mean failing human being, I mean a failing human being. Allow me to define what I mean by that.

You see, we as humans have a natural defense system known as “sarcasm.” To varying degrees but it is true, we have all deployed this mechanism to protect ourselves. We laugh at our pity to misdirect our friends and also make us more relatable. However, what I find is that a lot of winners misuse sarcasm. They often abuse the power of sarcasm. I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I’ve heard rich people complain about their destitution. It doesn’t make sense. If you are winning, sarcasm doesn’t work.

See when I deploy sarcasm, most of what I’m saying is truth. 

Another example. A lot of my friends laugh and cry and joke and wallow about in their love lives. Complaining that it is failing or that men are dicks or that their love life is non-existent when they are presently dating. This makes no sense to me. My love/sex life on the other hand, is so dead, I have miraculously regained my virginity, a feat that no human has ever conquered.

To further extend the point, I haven’t dated or even gotten close to dating in about a year. I don’t even remember the last time I actually locked eyes with a male. I’ve been looking at the forehead of men for about a year now.

On my desk, displayed prominently for my own torture, is an unused condom. It sits there, watching me as it collects dust. I am waiting for the day I can finally exhume that rubber from the layer of dust it rests under.

What I’m getting at in all of this is, I’m actually failing. I actually suck. I don’t take chances, I stay on the safe side, I don’t put myself out there, I don’t initiate adventure or even conversation. I don’t like to leave my home, I don’t like to try new things, and I find complacency to be quite warm and comfortable. Complacency to me is what pie is to… to… complacency to me is what pie is to people who like pie I suppose.

I don’t find it brave when people talk about their sexual escapades or their tumultuous times with vices, I don’t find it brave when people talk about having their hearts broken or shooting for the stars and landing in the lake. I find it brave when people talk about everything they’re not doing. I find it brave when people admit that they really aren’t that cool or interesting. That is true embarrassment, the lack experience. Everyone claims to be interesting and those people who claim to be interesting think they’re doing this brave thing by putting their story out there. It’s not brave because it’s interesting, it’s stuff the rest of us bums love to hear because it makes it seem like you are amazing and we are nothing.

You might be failing but I’m not doing anything. Not sure which is actually worse.

I spend my life playing pretend. I pretend like I’m interesting, I pretend like I have something of worth to say. I draw out stories based on events that meant nothing and overdramatize them to make it appear as if I am constantly facing these life-changing experiences. I’m not.

I think when people ask me about guys or my love life in general, I still mention that one date I went on with this one guy whom I thought was aggressively average a long time ago. I’m just rehashing the same story. I’m giving you the same thing but different.

It gets hard sometimes. Writing about the world from your bedroom window.

Perhaps my sheltering provides me with this unique perspective of the world? I give you insight that means nothing and isn’t backed by trial and error. 

I realize what a horrible marketing scheme this is for a writer. Promising the reader that when they peruse my work, they will take with them nothing of work. No major theme to ponder. No life advice to take. Nothing. All I can give to you is the reassurance that you’re not the only one.

What will happen from here is I will continue to make more false promises to myself. I will swear that this coming fall will be the most exciting time of my life. I will go to crazy parties, try hard drugs, find amazing sexual fulfillment, and come back to you (my small pool of devoted readers) with tales of a successful failure. The kind of failure where I took my shot, missed it completely but at least I came back with a good story to tell.

So here we go again, from the beginning…

**Grabs hand mirror and starts shaving hoo-hah** TC mark

About the author

Funny girl, writer, & clueless.

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