I have pondered and pondered and Googled, yet I remain stupefied by the most irksome Question of the Ages: Why, Mr. Really, Really Nice Guy, do you decide to reach out to me and spill your guts to me and commiserate about life with me and give me your number and email back and forth with me and say such nice things to me and suggest that “we get together sometime,” and yet, you don’t mention that you’re married?
So, in an attempt to organize my confusion, I composed the following list of questions.
I’ve been walking to keep somewhat sane my entire life, but it only occurred to me to formalize these walks when things began to feel very distinctly insane. We all need some structure, right? About a year into my post-graduate underemployment spell—which is now my established status quo—I decided it might be worth the tradeoff in grocery money to splurge on gas once a month and treat myself to a day out. Given that underemployment and languor are now officially part of my life, I concluded that a monthly day off from brooding in my rented room about my existential dilemma is necessary for sanity maintenance and in turn survival. That is, I began to realize that if I were to continue to maintain an uninterrupted lifestyle of a nocturnal recluse for much longer, I would soon sink into an irreversible depressive coma, my brain would completely atrophy, and I would become a zombie catatonic idgit before my thirtieth birthday. Or, at least, I’d go from being only half crazy to being totally crazy; of this I am certain. Continue reading