Four years ago, I moved to this city, New York City. Two nights ago, I celebrated with some friends and Manhattans and karaoke. And yesterday, after days of boundless joy and eighty degree weather, a bike ride to Coney Island and the weekend spent in Central Park, I crashed. It could have been the cloudy weather, the hangover, or perhaps it was the feeling, always there, that I have been so successful at ignoring with fun activities and booze. I don't know if I want to talk about the feeling, to trace its contours, for fear that I may bring it back into being by doing so. In short, there was nostalgia for the ambition I at one time had, nostalgia for old friends, a feeling of incredible loneliness, an unhappiness with my lack of a job, particularly a job that I either like or that requires very little time, and just a general sense of self-loathing.
I watched Friday though last night and the easy giggles that provided, silly as they were, were enough to shake off some of my gloom. What shook the rest of it off was the presence of a boy who made me feel less alone, desired. Ryan came over and we drank whiskey and talked about adolescence. We then laid down in my bed, continued to talk, and I was happy with that, my arms around him, talking about things and feeling the presence of something. That was all I needed. The sex that followed wasn't needed for my happiness, but it definitely added to it.
The sun is back out today. I am going to the Princeton Review for the first time in months. I am drinking coffee and listening to Bruce Springsteen and thinking of being in cars and listening to this music.