Semantical Self-Gratification (Like Masturbating, but with Words)

After three days of spitting venom I decided to take a chill pill, at which point I arrived at my morning class, learned that the receptionist had cancelled the class via Internet 5 days ago (a fact of which I was obviously not notified), and became re-enraged.

I feel that unadulterated anger, even more than alcohol, is an irrefutable marker of truth. I tend to think that drunk confessions or proclamations are what your drunk self wants to think are truths. As someone who’se been tragically wasted more than a handful of times, I can attest to this. For example, freshman year of college, I (or so I was told) traipsed around decreeing that I was a “disgruntled 80s pop star”. Unless I achieved celebrity at the age of two and never knew about it, this is not a secret that I intoxicatedly revealed but rather something that I wished in the moment to be true.

Rage, on the other hand, is a blind and concentrated fury in which you know precisely what you are doing. When I become livid, everything is clear. Or is it simply clear to the reality that my angry self has established? It’s very difficult to know when the right time to make decisions actually is.

As you may or may not know, I’m on the fence about goddamn everything in my life right now. Perhaps it’s the all-too-common “quarter-life crisis”, in which all us over-educated, under-qualified go-getters (sorry for all the hyphenation; I’ve been teaching compound adjectives this week) put down our travel bag, take a look at our bank accounts, and realize that we have no idea what the hell we’re doing. That television lies (I’m sorry, but how could a 20-year-old Dan Humphrey manage to write a best-selling novel while having emotional breakdowns every six minutes and spending time on that shitty hair-do?) and we’re not actually going to achieve artistic success. That we’ve spent the last few years globe-trotting and job-hopping looking for greater truths, reading thick books in dim lights, only to realize we drank too much and interacted too little and while we can name every character on Grey’s Anatomy we don’t remember a damn line of the Bhaghavadgita because we were mad high and we haven’t changed anyone’s life in a meaningful way, as per the initial plan. Maybe it’s generation of people who in high school were made to think too much about the future and now that it’s here it’s highly underwhelming.

People have been telling me to wait till I go home to make any decisions. See your friends and family, they say, be around the familiar. You’ll know what to do. Pardon, but the last time I was around the familiar I got so damn bored that I border-hopped. Furthermore, being in a happy, placid state of minds means that decisions are of utmost unimportance. I don’t see how being content will spark any changes.

Another suggestion I received, this with regards to the boyfriend dilemma, was to go home, spend the nine days before he arrives having sex with other people, and then see if I feel guilty. If I do, that means maybe we’re not over. But if the love of the game is too big a draw, then I should say “adios.” Obviously an option, and an attractive one at that. But not logical. I do think that I can compartmentalize and separate encounters and people. While the quantity of love and passion is not an unlimited resource, I don’t think, in my case, it’s danger of running out. The issue in my relationship is being from different cultures. In my culture, I don’t believe in relationships. And yet I’m in one. I accept that. But now, with New York on the horizon, I’m wondering what the fuck I’m doing.

Or is it loss of identity? After a year and a half I find myself with dangerously short black hair, choosing to stay in on a Friday night as opposed to blowing the whole paycheck in a bar. Is this maturity or stagnancy? What’s really going on here?

There’s a reality show called “Ten Things I Hate About Me,” in which the subject lists ten things she hates about herself and then is given professional help and advice on how to remedy these issues. If I were to do the same, how would it pan out? Some are easy: I feel fat, I start exercising. I want to write more, make a schedule and stick to it. But these issues can’t even begin to be addressed before the crippling emotional ones are. And how the fuck do you know if you should stay in a relationship or not? How do you know whether you’re still in love or simply just comfortable? The beginning of something is always an explosion, a quest for the truth of that person’s existence. You dig to understand them, to know them intimately, physically, emotionally, spiritually. Every day is an adventure. But then what? How do you sustain the fire? It’s not about the sex – the sex is great, orgasms guaranteed! But even that’s a degree of stagnancy. Predictability. Boredom.

I was reading an article about George Clooney, whose relationships generally don’t surpass the one year mark. Why? Because he’s George Fucking Clooney. Why should he limit himself to one person? I’ve never limited myself to one type of food, one city, one hobby, one look. Why do I all of the sudden find myself limiting myself to one person? Is this love? Or have I simply been in Mexico too long and forgotten my principles, and now find myself allegedly logically floundering in a world where eating three meals a day with your family is normal?

30 days. That’s the only thing I know.

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