This Is Not MTV.

1997

“How is school?” She asks me. The first thing I’d want to do is light a cigarette, blow the smoke in her face and say, “Fine, everything is fine, dear.” After she would ask me what I’ve been learning, I would say, “The meaning of nihilism and misanthropy, don’t you know? It’s all very reaffirming, the lack of power we have over our own choices and the nature we wish to construct our existence in. I love it. Getting plastered at 10 PM on a Friday night and not having a clue that I’m draining into my own vortex by not climbing out of this nice little pit that I cling to for comfort; scratching tallies on the wall as the days go by. Yeah, that’s what I’m learning—the nature of my own socialization so I don’t have to think anymore than I have to. I’m trying to get beyond my own crippling pretentious nature so I can function in society. That’s what college is all about.” I’d put out the cigarette in my cup of coffee and walk out the door, remorseless and floating through distinct stages of abandonment.

Of course, I’d never do it. It would seem too misogynistic, even though that intention would be the furthest thing from my mind. Also, smoking indoors is worth a fifty-dollar fine. I just wanted to burst open and expose the raw energy that I have been trying to harness. Instead I smile pleasantly and say that everything is going fine. I tell her that I’m learning the basics of quantum theory and the conversation ends there. We sit in silence for three minutes until the waiter comes by and refills our cups of coffee. Should’ve gone to Diedrich’s. Coffee goes by much quicker than actual lunch. I nonchalantly look at my watch and she begins to text message when her phone dings. I don’t think she notices that she’s happy today.

Do you love me? I want to ask. Or maybe that’s not the right question. Because I knew the answer to that. I hadn’t seen her in a week (I had been hiding in the library, trying to link together Richard Dawkins and the Dalai Lama so I could try to find some universal theory of luck. No progress, obviously. I want to ask her, Do you think you love me—Why do you think you love me? If she did think so. At this point I wasn’t sure of anything. My stomach hurt from the caffeine. I never knew what she would answer; I was always afraid of it because I knew the words would just destroy any meaning I had tried to compose of all the random sequences of events that is my narrative. Perhaps I was overreacting. This is for a grade, I’d think to myself. It’s how I functioned. Everything had an end, and hopefully extra credit would be involved. It wasn’t always like this, I think.

“I just wanted to be friends,” she said under her breath. “Since the beginning, that’s all I ever really wanted." I poured some sugar in my coffee. I caught myself before the inevitable apology. I shrug and I smile, a sign of relief.

“Do you love me?” I asked the wrong question. I don’t wait for an answer. It wasn’t always like this, I think. Or at least, it didn’t have to be.