“Yo, it’s Pete and I couldn’t make it to the phone so just--”
I slammed the phone shut and ran both hands through my hair. Frustration took over and I took a deep breath to stabilize myself. I picked my cell phone back up and dialed another familiar number.
“Patrick. I have caller id, so I don’t need a name and number, just a message. Tha--”
It’s quite hilarious that I have two boyfriends and still nothing to do on a Friday night. Perhaps I should look into getting another. Boyfriend, that is. Friday nights are plentiful enough.
I stared at my phone hoping I could will it to ring. If people have been documented bending spoons, certainly I could make a phone ring.
My staring continued.
Actually, I don’t even need it to ring. That playful little tune signifying a text message would do just as well.
I know what you’re thinking. That I’m too codependent. Well, you’re right. I am, but I wasn’t always this way. In fact, I’m not even sure how I got this way. Suddenly, I’m just afraid to be alone. And not even in an existential sense. In a physical sense, as well. I can’t be alone at all. Being alone leaves me with too much time to think about shit. It gets me trapped inside of my head. I just don’t have time for that. I surround myself with people so that I don’t have any time to actually get to know myself. Most times I end up surrounding myself with people I don’t even like. However, I’m afraid that if I didn’t, I’d learn that I don’t very much like myself either.
I tore my eyes away form my cell phone and looked around my small apartment. There was a laptop, a TV, an entire bookcase full of, well, books, and a few board games I had saved from my childhood. It’s ridiculous the amount of entertainment this room contains. I could get on the computer so that I could forget that I was alone. I could turn on the TV for some brainless activity. I could read to have something to occupy my mind. It seems that technology was only invented to keep us from ourselves. It serves as an escapism for life. Who needs to really get to know themselves when you could watch The Real World?
I used to have a hobby when I was younger. Writing. I used to write. I wanted to turn in into a career. I wanted to write for Spin magazine alongside Chuck Klosterman and Marc Spitz. That dream hit the dirt hard, because I opted to do hair instead. It was the cheaper and easier route to go.
I could take this time that I have to myself to write like I used to, but writing requires honesty and ambition. Those are two things I seem to lack as of late.
Bayside came pouring out of the speakers of my cell phone and I nearly pounced on it.
There was a picture of a blond man making a makeshift gun out of his fingers and thumb and pointing it to his head on the small screen.
“Hey lover, sorry I missed your call.”
“It’s fine.” I lied. It wasn’t fine at all. All that time to myself had successfully stressed me out. I felt like I had just worked a fourteen hour shift at a hospital Grey’s Anatomy style. Is it just me or does just watching that show stress anyone else out as well? There’s just always so much drama.
“Have you eaten yet?” He asked with his incredibly smooth voice.
“Nope, not yet.”
“Well, get dressed. I’ll be there in thirty. Oh, and wear something red. You know I like you in red.” He hung up without so much as a goodbye, but I was unphased. I was just relieved that I had something to do tonight.