By: Zedd Strangelove, SFU Student
The room is silent with the exception of a lone ceiling fan pushing lukewarm air down on the bed. There I lie on my crunchy bedsheets, staring into the abyss of my stylish water-stained popcorn ceiling. The hot September sun is the only source of light in my room, casting laser beam lines like a light show appropriately set at a funeral.
The bed is equal parts dirty laundry and human, and the difference between the two grows increasingly unperceivable with the passing of each day. I have been here for days, feeling far emptier than the bed on which I lie. Empty pizza boxes line the floor of the room, worth the equivalent of an entire semester’s tuition. A gin-soaked tube sock of a long lost lover is clenched in my fist, used for both sponge baths and hydration.
It’s been 78.5 days since I last experienced human touch — long enough to forget the feeling. You can’t really miss something you don’t know, right? I think so. Yet again, the other day the pizza delivery driver’s hand brushed mine as I was getting my change back and I almost felt something.
In other news, I discovered that asking Pizza Hut delivery drivers if they “wanna hang out sometime or something” is generally something you’re not supposed to do.
That’s alright, though, because I have plenty of friends whom I can talk to. I get messages on Snapchat like crazy, even if it is just a black screen with the only word being “streaks.” But honestly, I’m doing great — thriving, even. I watched a self-help video on YouTube and I think that all the “me time” I’ve had lately has helped me learn to love myself just as much as my pet goldfish loves swimming on its back. I would say it’s helped me to love myself even more than a good stuffed crust, but I really just don’t taste as good when lathered in garlic butter. Believe me, I’ve tried.
I called my mum the other day and asked if she wanted to hang out. She asked me if I was okay. I said, “yeah, I’m doing great.”
“Okay, good.”
She hung up.
Modern problems require modern solutions, so I made some sock puppet friends out of the laundry on my bed. They really do a good job of hyping me up, like any group of true friends would. Together we compiled a mailing list of every non-related female in my contact list, sending out a mass 3 a.m. “u up?” text. Overall, the operation was a success. Of all 20 recipients, I got four replies, and only three of those said that they’re blocking my number. The last reply simply read, “Really? This again?”
On second thought, maybe I should’ve filtered out my old retail managers from the list. That’s okay, though. I’ve got plenty of time to find new references to put on my resume.
I can’t really be mad at the situation. It is what it is. If anything, it’s made me stronger. With the power of stuffed crust and sock puppets on my side, I can take on the whole world, even if the whole world ignores me.
