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22 / 5 / 2012 @ 00:51

I cannot remember the last time it was this difficult to be alone. Not intimately; I’ve grown well into the skin of single life and I’ve determined that any other fit would be much too tight. But it’s this thing, this indistinct prick that makes contact at a thump and accelerates a pulse to an annoying medium between boredom and anxiety. 

Thinking back to last summer is counterproductive, if not self-destructive. A period of three undisturbed months of pure and unbridled indulgence in which I became addicted to marijuana, loosened my grip on principle to just short of an open hand, and cast any concept of financial obligation to a woodchipper. 

And it all happened so fast. Three months is not a reasonable amount of time for anyone to change as much as I have seen myself change. To anyone else, this is nonsense. I could not have possibly changed that much after one year. I could not have possibly condemned invested years of my life to structure a rickety plan for the future in exchange for a great summer. There is no way that morals are that fickle. Principles, by definition, cannot be so easily morphed.

Yet I sit in my living room, painfully alone, fully aware of the blinding opportunity awaiting me in just nine days, knowing I am fully capable of altering my perspective to see only what fortune has allotted me. 

When I begin to think about last summer, like a snippet, I see myself in a tan leather, passenger seat of an Acura TL, lightly sweating, a cigarette in between my index and middle fingers, my head is held forward to account for the bill of my snapback which faces backward, and my destination is unknown. All I know is that Edgar is driving. 

Chances are good that we are high. Chances are even better that where we are going, we will get high(er).

There is always music playing. The impressive stock speakers of his TL blasting the best of our summer soundtrack: Krizzle, Weeknd, Sean Don, or Drizzy. 

But the vibe, the flow of energy in the car, wherever we went, whatever we did, it was all so perfectly nonchalant, giving us affirmation that this living this life is easy. We were complete, unchecked masters of our domain. Everything was disposable, especially concern. We were capable of disregarding second thoughts with bowls and knew that they were still there, we were just too high to give a shit. But the sheer volume at which things progressed was unparalleled. All of a sudden we were adults with nobody to to keep tabs on our adult lives but us. We adopted a thought process that catered to every impulse and satisfied every indulgence. We didn’t know how to say no because we never needed to.

It’s pretty profound when Edgar and I get nostalgic. Because we do still sit down, even though it’s been an eternity-long year, and dwell quite deeply in the memory of last summer. We observe who we are now. We look at who we were and muster this puzzled look unfamiliarity. Like, “how did this happen so fast?”.

I am not attributing this to a semi-quarter life evaluation gauging how much and how well I’ve adapted to growing up. I am attributing to the crash course I took a year ago and the aftermath of recooperating from the greatest three months of my life that apparently took a completely new lifestyle to achieve. 

I remember it was much easier to be alone. That’s what happens when you spend close to ninety days with one person. Sometimes I think everything would be easier if I just had Edgar around. 

I’m still learning to adjust, to adapt to every demand adult life makes, the death and taxes stuff. If anything, it helps give weight to just how much you need to rely on yourself and that’s important. 

But on a Monday night, when summer’s still brand new, being alone fucking sucks. 

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17 / 5 / 2012 @ 08:04

Get paid to poop.