I feel like whoever writes my life is going for some kind of petty hipster drama full of small, meaningless ironies.
It's homecoming so the alumni have overtaken campus with their alcohol-fueled nostalgia. My ex is back in town, as my coworker likes to remind me. They were in a musical together. "I heard he misses you," he said.
"You don't even know him," I said.
"I thought you were best friends."
So, successful evasive maneuver Friday night: Holed up in my dorm with friends, though one friend was both really sick (coughing all night everywhere) and someone my roommate does not like staying over (he thinks she's a perv, probably), but you can't tell her to go home at 3 AM you know.
And then I went to work. And I came back from work at 9 PM, walking alone on Locust, Taking Back Sunday's "Catholic Knees" playing full blast and I see this guy on the bridge, wearing a long wool coat, his arms over some guy's shoulder; he's stumbling around drunkenly,
and I thought, he looks really familiar, though there are a lot of guys like that I bet, imagine if he were my ex, I hope my ex gets hit by a car and struck by lightning whilst being devoured alive by maggots,
and he starts waving at me, and they both say, "Hey!"
And it's him.
Why god. Why.
I dropped out of orgo for reasons. I still have 4.5 credits (max 5.5 credits, average 4 credits) so it's not a HUGE deal, but.
Whoever writes my life is a sicko with no imagination.