I wake up from a nightmare and reach over for my phone. My last act before sleep was switching my display to grayscale. My reels have unintentionally become demonic, with an estimated forty percent of them focusing on European racial violence. My thinking was, if I drain the color out, they’ll become lifeless and dead, unworthy of my attention.
It is six a.m.
I’ve woken up at sunrise (or close to it) for almost a week now, to recalibrate my circadian rhythm, which, safe to say, is fucked.
I have one notification: a message from what I hope will be my date today.
We matched on Bumble. I switched to Bumble after being stood up three consecutive times on Hinge; what a relief to not have to worry about the delivery of a pick-up line. I’m awful at them, besides, it strikes me as antiquated to have to obey heteronormativity in 2024.
Fiona sent me her phone number at 11:35 p.m. She knew I’d be asleep; I’d told her I was on my wellness grind. “Positivity grindset” is what I’d texted. She sent me her number late on purpose, my soon to be queen, to wake me up with a little present.
I compose a text: “Good morning Beautiful. Do you want to get coffee with me this afternoon?”
I send it without much reflection. Fuck, I think. I’m supposed to have a Fortnite session with my homie Alex. I’ve never met him in real life. If I had to guess he is fifteen years old. In private chats he’s expressed his dream of becoming a Twitch streamer; he carries our team, but lately there’s been an almost altruistic quality to the dubs. What it is, I think, is that he took my advice and read Marcus Aurelias.
He’ll be disappointed I can’t play tonight. I’ll make up for it by gifting him V-Bucks so he can buy the coveted John Wick skin from season two.
My mattress is on the floor.
After gaming last night I’d crawled in and fell asleep with my clothes on, face down, watching reels. My one blue blanket is a bit wrinkled but returns to a perfect fold by smoothing out the crease. Next to my bed is an unopened log of 6 mg Citrus Zyn. There’s been a shortage lately, but GoPuff had the clutch plug. I take the plastic off the log and crack open a fresh can, sniffing the Zyns.
They smell like nothing. This excites me.
I’m particularly groggy this morning from last night’s oversaturation of blue light, so I decide to do an upper and lower decky double-decker. I suck my teeth. It feels like I’ve just inhaled gas, but my sleepy receptors are definitively banished for the morning.
I go to the bathroom and run the water. When it’s hot enough, I plug the sink and fill the basin, gently setting a small pure cotton towel in the water. I should also acknowledge my debt to K-Beauty TikToks for complexifying my skin care routine. The reels are to the point and informative; I can’t believe I was such an ass, thinking I could get by on a splash of water alone.
I wring out the towel and press it to my face, allowing a few seconds to pass. Although I can’t feel it, I know my pores are opening like an abyss. I’m even happy to imagine them that way, gaping.
I apply a snail mucin facemask I’d bought at Target. At first, I was skeptical. Who am I to perpetuate the heinous snail-milking in East Asia? Especially in today’s political climate. Well, I was wrong. The resident skin-care specialist at my Target assured me the mucin is extracted using cruelty-free techniques. Now, as I smooth the mask over my face, I feel a rising confidence. The collagens, polyphenols, elastin, antioxidant enzymes are performing a kind of wizardry on my skin.
I know when it’s time to take it off, I’ll be glowing.
I start making the coffee, clicking on my kettle and preparing the French press; I think of how my parents use a Keurig. Disgusting and irresponsible. To microplastics I sing *NSYNC: Baby, bye, bye, bye. Besides, I thrifted my press for three dollars at the SA. I appreciate the full-bodied flavor I achieve with it, especially with my Trader Joe’s Light Roast blend.
My coffee is perfect.
The combination of it with my two Zyns unleashes the urgent need to shit. I rush back to the bathroom. It comes out tortured and edgy, just like me.
*
I clean up and take off my facemask. My match still hasn’t texted me back, but it’s still early. I go to the living room with my can of Zyn and fresh coffee to read. I’ve been deeply enjoying Jordan Peterson’s 12 Rules for Life: An Antidote to Chaos, and I put on Tame Impala as background noise (the silence bothers me) while I crush some pages, but I have a hard time honing in. This shouldn’t be happening, I think, and look at my phone to see if she texted me back.
No.
The grayscale has become burdensome. I’m not a psycho, I think, and switch it back.
I need something to take my mind off things, to “get me in my body.”
I put on my running gear, pleasurably slipping on my white Hoka Mach V’s, an excellent shoe, practically angel wings, and after a moment of deliberation, I decide that the morning calls for five miles. My route is simple: five laps around my apartment complex. My Apple Watch is convenient. With it, there is no need to bring my phone. I use the opportunity to listen to a good chunk of Rick Rubin’s The Creative Act: A Way of Being. Rick Rubin, if I’m being serious, is everything I want to be: a vibe shaman. His voice lulls me into an inspirational metastasis.
On my run, I see nothing.
I hear nothing from the world.
I am in my body for real for real and in my Mach V’s, floating, I know I am a god, and I can’t help but drop my pace in the last two laps.
When I get back inside my apartment I check my phone. Fiona texted: “Hey! Yes! I’ll be free by four, I get off at three-thirty. Coffee House good? I like their matcha ;)”
Bag secured, I think, and compose my text. I can’t come across as a simp. I text: “Sick. See you then 👍”
I set my shower to its coldest setting. A cold shower every day is proven to promote weight-loss and mental health, so I take one every day, my own kind of “Antidote.”
I can’t be safe enough.
*
It’s three o’clock, time for me to decide on my fit. For a casual first date, I know my fit needs to go hard, but not too hard; I don’t want to clown my date (in a strictly fashionable sense).
Everything starts with the shirt; it is, therefore, the hardest choice.
I start combing through my carefully curated collection. I find Option A: a vintage real-tree camouflage shirt circa 1998, in mint condition and an excellent choice.
I lay it on the mattress, turning back to the closet.
Option B: a vintage Woolrich short-sleeve shirt; it’s a nice beige color that I think will keep me a bit cooler than the camo. I bought it at a vintage market about a year ago, but I’ve only worn it once or twice. On the back is a red screen-printed four-leaf clover. I lay it next to Option A.
I take out a simple vintage shirt that says “Coors” on it, but put it back immediately. I don’t want to imply I’m an alcoholic.
Instead, for Option C, I pull out a Commes des Garçons shirt, practically brand-new, with their trademark heart on the breast pocket. It has a small smudge near the belly button, but it isn’t noticeable.
I look at my shirts on the mattress, but the decision is tougher than I thought it’d be.
I go with Option A, the camo.
“Camo is fire,” I say to the shirt, slipping it on. The rest of the outfit is put together easily. I pick out a pair of light blue Levis and put them on, cuffing the pants no more than a half-inch. I finish the outfit with gray suede Blundstones and a single silver crucifix earring dangling from my right ear.
There is a Carhartt beanie sitting on my dresser, still in the plastic sleeve. Should I hard-launch my beanie today? I decide against it, and mess up my hair, giving me a cool disheveled look.
*
Coffee House is a short walk away; I hoof it over there without much trouble. I understand that it will be crucial to be seen with a book; I want Fiona to think I am a thoughtful man who thinks deep things. I had almost grabbed Jordan Peterson, but I called an audible last-second. I chose The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, a book I reserve for being seen in public with: it is sensible, progressive, attentive to the double-standards placed upon women, and the dilemma of motherhood.
The Coffee House barista knows me by name; I’ve been a faithful patron for the past two years, ordering a cortado every. single. time, but Kelly has never once inquired about how my day was; a slight that has not gone unnoticed. Kelly says: “Your usual?”
I nod and tap my phone to the kiosk. It’s 3:45.
I grab a table and open The Bell Jar at random, staring at a passage I’ve read for the umpteenth-million time. After six pages, I tap my phone.
It’s four o’clock.
She should be here any minute.
I try to read vigorously, but I can’t focus. I’m filled by a slight tremor at the thought of meeting Fiona. This one is going to work out.
4:10.
Maybe she ran into traffic, I think. It’s hard asf to get parking around here.
I go to the bathroom, rinsing my face with water to get the excess oil off it. I manage to read ten pages despite mounting restlessness.
4:30.
I text: “Are we still on? :-)”
4:45.
No reply, reading is impossible.
5:09. I pack it in. I’ve been stood up. I put my book into my tote bag and walk home.
*
My apartment is impossibly lonely, but a graceful comfort. I power up my gaming PC to play Call of Duty: Warzone, singles.
In the pre-match lobby, my despair is sublimated into excitement. I parachute my avatar onto a skyscraper and equip my LMG, unloading the clip into every player in sight.