Yeah, I lived the college life.
Speaking for myself, the reality didn’t live up to the fantasy — BUT — if I’d never learned that for myself, I would’ve probably always wondered about it. Still caught up in the ‘what if?…’
I mean, the girls are never as hot as you think they’ll be (especially the next day), the sex doesn’t give you the self-esteem / validation you think it will, the drugs take more from you in time than they give you in wisdom.
It’s not a beer commercial where everyone is happy and beautiful and smiling all night. There’s a lot of really broken, really fucked up, lonely girls out there. The one night stands you take home and screw aren’t glorious notches that validate how much game you have, you know? Most of the time, you’re just seizing upon some girl who is desperate to be cared about so she’ll throw herself at you because she doesn’t know how else to find what she’s looking for beyond appealing to what she believes is the masculine failsafe of convenient sexuality.
There were a lot of times I went out looking to prove something to myself - only to walk home the next day feeling like I didn’t prove shit except that I’m even more confused than when I started (not to mention a crash course in STD scares).
The feeling of hollowness that creeps into you through the holes of your moral fabric is palpable.
All that said, I think it’s something everyone has to figure out for themselves by doing it — more or less. At the end of the day, I’m still glad I lived it out and learned for myself rather than just sat in my dorm and wondered ‘what if…’
19 Ways To Break Up With Someone
Tell them your company is relocating you and then just… never move.
Becoming progressively more of an asshole until they are forced, through frustration and exhaustion, to break up with you. You get to be the good guy!
Skywriting. And make sure to put the little heart with the arrow through it at the end.
Not doing anything, and waiting for them to just find out that you’re sleeping with someone else through the grapevine, like a true gentleman and scholar.
Throwing a brick through their window with “SORRY” written on it in blood.
On Empty Sex
Do you have a brother, one that teases you? Or a sister, you share shoes with? Which neighborhood abode on your street do you remember best? The one that housed your best friend with the red trim and the white shutters? Or the tiny wooden cabin with the sweet old couple that always made shortbreads and lemonade? Do you like to be fucked from behind? Do you prefer to be taken slow and sweetly, or quick and roughly? Will you scream when you cum? Will you run your nails down my back when I slip inside of you?
I place my palm against her cheek, letting my fingers run through her long brown tresses and gently thumb her ear. Her hair is made of silk and smells of fresh flowers and female musk. I move her jaw towards mine and there is fire. My curious attraction instantly morphs into an all-consuming desire. Time, which had (up until now) been crawling past me, sluggishly creeping from moment to moment, now became a violent twister, playing a game of tag with my desire. I thrust her slight body against the kitchen wall and begin to lift. Our lips tangle with one another, and never dare to part. She tastes sour and coppery, but I like it. I want this, need this, must have this.
Suddenly, it hits. I set her down and let my mouth hover over hers for a moment. Empty. This is empty. The entirety of my passion rapidly drains, taking the colour in my cheeks along with it. This is empty writing. This is empty sex. We are empty people.
I look into her eyes and forcefully pull her towards me. We tear ravenously at each other’s clothes and fuck wildly on the kitchen tiles. The harsh, cold ceramic eats at my knees while my nipples make instantaneous tracks along the glistening sweat of her stomach. My wrists begin to ache as she cums, and she screams, not unlike how I imagined. I stand back and survey my conquest: the curves of her hips, the dew on her forehead, the stringy wet hair plucking from her crown. She is beautiful, for a second. She is both my horror and my savior. Throwing my dress over my head, I turn and walk out the door into the cold, stale night. Embers of a cigarette spit at my knuckles. So what, then, was the point? We are nothing, and this is nothing; but does this weightlessness negate it’s own significance? My heavy shoes create hollow thump thumps as I trod down the stairs and into the darkness.
- Hannah: What does it feel like to be loved so much?
- Marnie: I don't know, I can't feel it anymore.