I Don't Know Why You Gotta Be Angry All The Time

This past week, my internship told me that I had an invitation to stay four more months if I was interested; I had done a spectacular job, and if a long-term position opened up, I would be immediately considered for it. That week started off fresh from a visit from my parents and ended with a double paycheck Friday. I had plans for the entire weekend set up, and still... with all of that good news in hand, I was told a record three times that week, Justin, I would never want to be on your bad side because when someone gets on your bad side, it's pretty obvious that they stay there.
At first, I enjoyed the summation because it made me feel like Victoria Grayson from Revenge or one of those Italian men from The Sopranos. Essentially, what I took from it is that I'm kind of a badass and garner respect from the masses. But after the third time, I began to wonder... what is it that I'm doing to people?? I looked back at my archived journals to figure out when the last time I held someone at knifepoint was, and that was way back in sophomore year of college, so it couldn't be that. Naturally, because I live in my own head, I decided to take a step back and try to think about what it is that could be making me so subtly angry.
At first I was a little perplexed as to why I could ever be perceived as a bitter person because, under most definitions, I am what the kids refer to as "living the dream." I somehow manage to pay rent every month (so far), and I have a small social circle. I'm doing well in school, and my professors think I have a witty, unique personality. What. Could. Be. Missing. When the solution isn't very evident, you start looking at the particulars. I've made a bulleted list you can scan through:

• a stronger affinity than usual for the lead pipe I carry in my car
• a spike in plays of "Somebody That I Used to Know"
• an influx of Reese's wrappers hidden throughout my apartment so that no one can find them
• an odd distaste for any movie closely related to a RomCom

After some initial WebMD searches, followed by an intensive unrelated Google search of "Where Do Broken Hearts Go," I decided that maybe I was lovesick. Lovesickness is something that people don't really like to admit to because, well, it's embarrassing and looks kind of needy. But it's not something that you should ignore because when you do that, people say that you're angry, and then you just make people less apt to fall in love with you, because that's how love works.

Apparently it's not that uncommon of an issue because, as of tonight, all three occupants of my apartment have now bastardized our personalities and dignity to create online dating profiles. Love, or the lack of it, makes you do some funny things which probably explains a lot of the weird things I've done in the past when it comes to relationships. No one can say that they're perfect, and when under the influence of hormones and the ever lingering threat of getting married while you're still in shape and proudly sporting a head full of hair, you start to have a really guilty sympathy for Amy Fisher, aka the Long Island Lolita.

I can never say that I've ever shot my lover's wife in her face, and that's something that I believe is a trait to be proud of; BUT it doesn't make me exempt from the laundry list of things I've done in the face of loneliness and desperation. The effects of lovesickness come in different forms: the direct and the indirect. As I've seen from our personal experiences at the apartment, the indirect is one of the most hilarious and/or ridiculous products involved in this process. As we've been filling out our profiles, we turn to each other in a nervous panic saying, This website asked me what I'm good at... WHAT AM I GOOD AT?!?!1?!!1 It's like we've forgotten what we do on a daily basis so we turn to basic human functions (walking places, checking the mail, buckling my seatbelt) because we've forgotten any remnant of a skill set we have. And then there's me who waits seven minutes, has no profile visits, then launches into a soliloquy about the shallow nature of humanity, and that if your profile picture isn't alluring enough, you might as well consider yourself trash. It's exhausting being self-deprecating.

This is called a Tango Corte, or as I referred to it in class,
the "kiss my ass, I'm really jaded after our relationship"
thingy.

But the redeeming quality of the indirect is that you can keep it as private as you would like; the real issue begins when you start directing those feelings in different directions. At the climax of my last relationship's downfall, I was in the same ballroom dancing class as my significant other. Ironically, we were not partners, which seemingly would make continuing in the class easier. However, the effects of lovesickness knows no bounds. I took my partner, Rachel, aside and told her, Listen. Today is the tango, and I'll explain it later, but I need us to blow this shit out of the water. And by this, I mean we need to blow them out of the water. I pointed out the couple in question and explained our mission. Rachel, being my Jennifer Grey, quickly agreed. We used our long limbs to parade around the dance floor, doing as many of the cortes (see above) as possible before our instructor told us to stop having sex on the dance floor. Was I accomplishing anything of any substantial value by completely kicking the tango's ass? No. No, I was not. But in the face of feeling kind of sad and heartbroken, sometimes it helps to believe you're doing mean things to other people. And when you look back on it, the idea of what you've done is almost comical because ninety-nine percent of the time, whatever grand scheme you had going on in your head has had no significant impact on the other person's life. You unsubscribed to your ex on Facebook? Zing. Bet that one's going to burn for at least fifteen minutes.

And sure, all of these things are easy to make fun of, pity, or maybe even demean someone for because the idea of feeling so spiteful in regard to love seems a little contradictory to the process itself. But at the end of the day, we're all just kind of human. We do stupid things in the face of potentially being alone because no matter what we may say, we like the idea of having someone in our lives. I mean, I know in my case that if someone isn't at my apartment when I get in from work, I just go and talk to the pictures on my bedroom wall until I hear someone walk through the door. We're not a species of people that are meant to live our lives alone, so you can't blame people for the weird reactions they have when they are forced to go stag for a little bit. The important part of it all is that you look at yourself at the end of the day and say, You know. I'm kind of being batshit crazy right now because if you can accept the fact that the way you're acting is totally absurd, then you at least have that in check.

Acting out and doing the weird human things we do in the face of a loveless life is what makes us who we are. Some people like to "find themselves" and do yoga or swear off of (insert gender) for (insert time period). Some people resort to online methods in hopes of ending up on an eHarmony commerical one day. Then you have people like me, who apparently uses his lack of love life as an excuse to hone in on his ability to terrify people into believing that he could kill them at a moment's notice. Whatever you do to pass the time between romances is perfectly acceptable, as long as you don't shoot anyone like Amy Fisher did. Nobody likes that kind of crazy.