Well, don’t read too much into it, kay.
My battery is dying, 11% or so. I am a pensive and dour man. Others might gloriously “ride it” until their battery dies — ’til the black rectangle of the screen mimics the universe as seen without the distraction of dying stars — but my insecurities are honored through my laptop. I need power, it is unbearable.
There was Yale, tennis, your academic record. There was China. Your name. Your sister. The note you left. The sneaker on Fifth Avenue, a thing separate from the rest of you.
Recently, I’ve begun to question my nerd cred. While I’m nowhere near the bro-main of Axe Body Spray and UFC on pay-per-view, the proclivities of my geekier friends leave me in the dust. In fact, when my girlfriend drags me into a comic book store in search of an out of print Warren Ellis book, and I blithely smile at the employees as they offer their expertise, I doubt whether I’m any kind of a nerd at all.
It all started with Sex and the City. Watching those women find themselves throughout their 203,329,475 boyfriends, million dollar apartments and extremely lucrative but incredibly undemanding jobs, I felt like I finally saw myself. And it was refreshing, you know, because if there’s one demographic that’s missing in entertainment — so much so it’s beginning to feel intentional — it’s the quirky, city-dwelling white girl. She’s awkward, she’s hyper self-aware, she’s not too good with men but very open about her sex life (she makes lots of vagina puns — the definition of liberated!), she’s all of us.
I could start wearing more conservative clothes and lose some weight. These ten pounds I’ve gained while dating you are what’s coming between us. It’s totally fair. It was like false advertising. You got into a relationship with someone who’s thin and now I’m not so thin. How rude of me! You’re still fit and tan and sexy. I mean, I would love you still even if you weren’t, but I understand why you wouldn’t feel the same way. I’ll lose the weight and you’ll love me more. That’s final.