I Was Just Looking For A Way Out...
Chapter 15
The growling in the pit of my stomach is trying to tell me something… I’m fucking hungry right now. My mouth is watering and I can’t help but think about pizza, because I’m just that fat. I’m one step away from getting hard over a cook book, which is exactly why I can’t eat. You see, unlike chicks, guys don’t have any courtesy fat. No boobs or ass or hips where any fat is actually considered attractive, what I have just hangs and jiggles off the front of me in the least attractive way possible. From my neck to my stomach to my thighs, I’m all man and all overweight. Don’t tell me I’m not, I can see it, you know when I’m looking down and barely able to see my feet.
So I start doing push ups; I can only rack up like 25 or 30 at a time, but it both distracts me from the problem, and helps to solve it. By problem I of course mean the part that touches the floor first while I’m lowering myself to the floor, the part that hangs and rocks back and forth every time I do touch. The problem that forces me to either suck in my stomach, or wear a sweatshirt any time I go out in public. You know, the reason I’ve wondered if tape worms hurt, or if there’s a doctor that would remove a part of my intestine.
Before I realize and can actually get up, Jeremiah and that Emily chick from breakfast yesterday are standing over me. Telling the story I could pretend I’, on my 50th push up, and you’d have no clue I was lying, but honest I just finished number 15, and I’m breathing way to hard for only 15.
Looking up, embarrassed, they could make a pretty good couple. You know, if either one of them liked the opposite sex. They’ve just got that compatible look to them, because everyone knows happy relationships are based on appearances; I’m so fucking shallow.
“So what’s up muscle man?” Jeremiah asks with one of those award winning smiles that’s probably a major contributor to global warming. It’s melting my heart, why not some polar caps? Hell for gleaming teeth like that I’d be willing to sacrifice a few polar bears, even if Al Gore told me not to.
“Oh nothing much…” I say and pause for a second, “Just working the guns!” and I quickly bring up my arm and flex my pathetic bicep. The stupid joke gets a small cheap laugh from both of them, and even though I can’t tell whether it was faked or not, I’m not quite as nervous.
I’m not good with groups or new people, I get nervous and stammery. At least at school I’ve usually got a friend to latch on to for comfort… Here I’m all alone. I’m a little surprised that it’s even possible to be more alone then I was before I was admitted, but here I am.
Apparently I spaced out, hard. They sat down, and are apparently attempting to incorporate me into a conversation.
“Sorry.” I say, “I just completely spaced out.” I force a little laugh, the bland pleasantry that makes it all okay.
“Oh, that explains a lot.” Emily says and laughs, “I kind of thought you fell asleep with your eyes open or something.”
“Well, that’s one way of putting it.” I say and return a fake laugh. I’m so fucking awkward, I have to force myself to say every word, because each one is so much harder to get out then one of the pushups I was doing before they came.
It’s called Social Anxiety Disorder, which ironically actually spells out sad. Because I can’t be normal, that would be too easy, because I have to sit here and stumble over ever horrifically unoriginal word that my mouth is actually willing to spit out.
“So how are you liking it here anyway?” Emily asks with one of those warm soft smiles.
Testament to how shallow I am, I would be thinking so much nicer thoughts if she were straight, but of course I come up with the usual insulting bullshit.
Great! I’m in a mental hospital because if they let me leave I won’t live for 3 hours, I’m feeling so perfect you might as well start calling me Malibu Ken; I’m actually just waiting for Barbie to get out of the shower so we can go out. It’s what I want to say… but instead what comes out is,
“Great! You guys have really made me feel at home, and this place is really pretty alright when you get used to it. Thanks.” Because crying after therapy in a mental hospital is the picture of feeling at home, and pretty alright.
“Pretty alright? You do realize your in a fucking looney bin, right?” Jeremiah says from the corner of the room he’s sitting in.
“Oh stop it, just because you hate this place doesn’t mean everyone else has to.” Emily says defensible, of me, not herself.
“Em, it’s a mental hospital. God fucking damnit!” Jeremiah yells and storms out.
“I… I should follow him.” Emily says after a second and runs out after hin.
I have to say, no matter how stupid this may sound, I honestly just gained a lot of respect for my roommate.
So I start doing push ups; I can only rack up like 25 or 30 at a time, but it both distracts me from the problem, and helps to solve it. By problem I of course mean the part that touches the floor first while I’m lowering myself to the floor, the part that hangs and rocks back and forth every time I do touch. The problem that forces me to either suck in my stomach, or wear a sweatshirt any time I go out in public. You know, the reason I’ve wondered if tape worms hurt, or if there’s a doctor that would remove a part of my intestine.
Before I realize and can actually get up, Jeremiah and that Emily chick from breakfast yesterday are standing over me. Telling the story I could pretend I’, on my 50th push up, and you’d have no clue I was lying, but honest I just finished number 15, and I’m breathing way to hard for only 15.
Looking up, embarrassed, they could make a pretty good couple. You know, if either one of them liked the opposite sex. They’ve just got that compatible look to them, because everyone knows happy relationships are based on appearances; I’m so fucking shallow.
“So what’s up muscle man?” Jeremiah asks with one of those award winning smiles that’s probably a major contributor to global warming. It’s melting my heart, why not some polar caps? Hell for gleaming teeth like that I’d be willing to sacrifice a few polar bears, even if Al Gore told me not to.
“Oh nothing much…” I say and pause for a second, “Just working the guns!” and I quickly bring up my arm and flex my pathetic bicep. The stupid joke gets a small cheap laugh from both of them, and even though I can’t tell whether it was faked or not, I’m not quite as nervous.
I’m not good with groups or new people, I get nervous and stammery. At least at school I’ve usually got a friend to latch on to for comfort… Here I’m all alone. I’m a little surprised that it’s even possible to be more alone then I was before I was admitted, but here I am.
Apparently I spaced out, hard. They sat down, and are apparently attempting to incorporate me into a conversation.
“Sorry.” I say, “I just completely spaced out.” I force a little laugh, the bland pleasantry that makes it all okay.
“Oh, that explains a lot.” Emily says and laughs, “I kind of thought you fell asleep with your eyes open or something.”
“Well, that’s one way of putting it.” I say and return a fake laugh. I’m so fucking awkward, I have to force myself to say every word, because each one is so much harder to get out then one of the pushups I was doing before they came.
It’s called Social Anxiety Disorder, which ironically actually spells out sad. Because I can’t be normal, that would be too easy, because I have to sit here and stumble over ever horrifically unoriginal word that my mouth is actually willing to spit out.
“So how are you liking it here anyway?” Emily asks with one of those warm soft smiles.
Testament to how shallow I am, I would be thinking so much nicer thoughts if she were straight, but of course I come up with the usual insulting bullshit.
Great! I’m in a mental hospital because if they let me leave I won’t live for 3 hours, I’m feeling so perfect you might as well start calling me Malibu Ken; I’m actually just waiting for Barbie to get out of the shower so we can go out. It’s what I want to say… but instead what comes out is,
“Great! You guys have really made me feel at home, and this place is really pretty alright when you get used to it. Thanks.” Because crying after therapy in a mental hospital is the picture of feeling at home, and pretty alright.
“Pretty alright? You do realize your in a fucking looney bin, right?” Jeremiah says from the corner of the room he’s sitting in.
“Oh stop it, just because you hate this place doesn’t mean everyone else has to.” Emily says defensible, of me, not herself.
“Em, it’s a mental hospital. God fucking damnit!” Jeremiah yells and storms out.
“I… I should follow him.” Emily says after a second and runs out after hin.
I have to say, no matter how stupid this may sound, I honestly just gained a lot of respect for my roommate.