Get Mocked by Your Loved Ones

As I mentioned in a previous post, you have loved ones. Your couch, your TV, that shitty pizza joint down the street, whatever ice cream is in your freezer. These are all the things you love.

Or at least you used to love them. Now many of these things have turned against you. The pizza place that you have eaten at every day for the last 6 weeks? Running out of choices, and the guy behind the counter clearly thinks you live a sad, horrible life. He's a 16 year old stoner. Along with the pizza, your freezer-ice cream has has added 17 pounds in the last two months. You weren't exactly Nicole Richie before that, either.

Remember how much you used to love your couch? You would spend hours in its loving embrace. When you were tired, it provided a spot to rest. When you were hungover, it would hold head. And it never got jealous of the TV. In fact, it was happy to support your love for the TV.

Ah, the TV. It used to provide such beautiful entertainment. Shitty daytime talk shows. Stupid sitcoms at night. Mid-90s movies starring Richard Gere, fleshed out with 7 minute commercial blocks. Random shows about animals. Random shows about virtually any life choice: chefs, fishermen, gold diggers, midgets, living in Jersey. All of them were there, and many made you feel better about your life choices.

Now the TV is your enemy. Every time you see it, you want to cry. It is sitting there, blank and lifeless. You know it is mocking you. Behind that black screen lies entertainment and sweet relief. And you see it every morning as you slowly make your way to whatever hell you go to when you study.

Finally, there is your bed. Your bed remained your ally the longest. It was there when you finally shut your computer down and wandered back home at night. You could crash into it, close your eyes, wipe your brain, and forget about the bar's terrible specter for a few hours. Finally, it happened. You knew it would, dreaded it, in fact, but it was bound to happen. You arrive at the bar site. You are late. You start taking your exam. The essay appears to make no sense, and the proctor keeps staring at you. Suddenly, you are being accused of cheating. The proctor is trying to take away your answer sheet; you are fighting backing, protesting your innocence. Everyone around you is staring. You seem to be short on clothes. And then you wake up. Bar nightmares. Damnit, even your bed has finally turned.

Slightly-less-distant binge drinking.