Night Terrors

Even though I had to be at work in a few hours, I knew there was no point in going back to sleep. My brain was in a frenzy. I felt panicked and needy. I rushed into my friend Angie's room, whose couch I've been sleeping on, and shook her.

"Angie? Are you awake?" I asked, as if I couldn't tell she was asleep.

She didn't respond at first, but when she came to and realized what was going on, she got cranky and bitched me all the way out of her room. Dismayed, I settled back into the couch fully awake. As I lay there in the dark, alone and contemplative, I realized that it's true what people say. Angie really is a stupid farm slut. It was as clear as day to me.

Other facts crystallized as well. I realized that I was majorly discontent and that I needed to quit my job, move back out to California and shoot smack. Absurd simpleton that I am, the first thing that inevitably pops into my head when I get scared or lonely is running away to California, and since I was feeling extra indulgent, I was convinced I needed a therapist to help me work out my issues as well.

As I lay there writhing in post-teen agony, the phrase Angie always snarls like a dingbat cokehead haunted me: "Karma is a bitter lover." I could hear her repeating it. "Karma is a bitter lover."

Just so you understand, Angie is a big tough hag disguised as a college punk. She's a jaded chainsmoker and has man troubles. Once I told her that she should change her name to Flo and become a waitress at a diner. She could've wrung my neck, but she just shrugged?the tragedy is she couldn't disagree. Fortunately, Angie does coke and wouldn't touch a newspaper if you locked her in a room with one.

Anyway, her trite phrase about karma kept coming back to me as I lay there feeling "so alone." Because, although I'm often depressed, I've always advocated repression to dismal friends and coworkers, and taunted suicidal indie rock kids for being weak.

This cruelty is only the result of overexposure, however. College seems to be a breeding ground for these emo types. I roomed with a boy named Tim who went through a three-month depression he told me about every day. Actually, he wouldn't really talk, he would just listlessly follow you around and refuse to say what was wrong?only that he wanted to kill himself. It got old fast and everyone began avoiding him like the plague. Within a few weeks I was leaving razor blades around the apartment and telling him that the real reason his parents got divorced was because they didn't love him.

During this endless suicidal phase he went through, I was bitterly convinced that he would outlive me. My biggest fear was that I'd be dead underground for years while he'd live to be 100, still watching anime and strumming his third-rate Mexican guitar.

I think the only reason he retained any friends during this dark period is because he had a DVD player and a CD burner. That's what kept me around, at least.

Heartless as it was, I got my just desserts. I lay awake on that couch, in that giant ashtray of a room, and felt like spilling my woes to someone for once. My feelings about the people in my life overwhelmed me. I thought about how I don't really want a job?any job?and how I don't really like any of my friends, and how my life is currently in a state of decline. Pathetic nostalgia thrashed my head until I felt like a total loser?like an indie rocker?like Tim.

But then the birds started chirping (even though it was still dark), and I closed my eyes and "imagined it was day" like some poet, and my thoughts turned to the new apartment I had my eye on. It's an exclusive brand-new three-story condo complex. A friend introduced me to some dudes who just moved in and who need a roommate. The two guys seem really nice and I am currently negotiating with them on the rent.

I thought about their state-of-the-art entertainment center, the big picture windows, my airy new room on the top floor. And all the money I'd be raking in from my new job.

Then I thought about my friends from college who will be going to school forever, not because they're scholars, but because they're scared. And I thought about their stinky little rooms and crooked apartments, and looked around myself in disgust at the one I was lying in. There were cigarette ashes and cat shit everywhere. I started snickering and began to feel better about myself. Money isn't everything, but it definitely beats grad school.

The longer I was awake, the meaner I got. Within an hour, I was scoffing at myself and tossing out the idea of going to California. I congratulated myself on resisting the urge to call up my friends to tell them I love them. My ego was replenishing itself and convincing me that the world could shit itself and I wouldn't care. This is why I prefer being awake?my dreams wreck me with too much emotion.

I got up feeling perky and cooked myself a big, greasy breakfast. Although I'm not a breakfast fan, I cheerily gorged myself so that my energy level would dip and I wouldn't put too much into my job that day.

I don't get paid enough for the effort I put in.