After dividing the furniture and pets in two, divvying up innumerable books, glassware, movies, and miscellaneous accessories, it was time to split the most unbearable thing of all; the relationship. Part spiritless commemoration; part withdrawn requiem. In the end, I subsumed the social laws of the single life.
Similar to being shot out of a bombastic cannon, the nature of being a single guy in NYC is – I have found – often precarious. And ironically, being single again is quite like getting married. Every person I spread the news to jumps with adulation and exclaims, “Congratulations!” Is there something you’re not telling me? Do I get superpowers now? How about a ribbon? A cookie? Free weed? Unsolicited sex? A hug? Nothing? Well, thought so.
No, Neo. These bullets will make you a corpse that’s also a poorly made mimicry of Christ. Get with the program.
Instead, I once again feel the torture that was, supposedly, bestowed upon Sisyphus. This king was sentenced to push an immense boulder up a lofty hill only to never settle on the top, but instead glare at the rock as it rolls back down. Although I respect what Albert Camus offers in his philosophical essay, The Myth of Sisyphus, one has to capitulate that being sentenced to anything for eternity would have its insufferable drawbacks. And so, here I am, back down at the base of an insurmountable hill staring reluctantly at the tool of my dissatisfaction as well as the unreachable summit. Sometimes I think I could use a good push.
-Single Guy in NYC