I Will Survive

Nostalgia is most often characterized by that "flashback" moment we're privy to in blockbuster moments; the main character looks back through the years in hazy sepia tones, holding hands with his love as they swing in an affectionate embrace. The echoing laughter of children (an indicator of innocence and purity and also a sure-fucking-fire sign that a complete reversal in the form of excessive violence is about to take place) reverberates through unseen halls padded with teddy bears and ice-cream sundaes, Fourth of July picnics and late Christmas Eves waiting for Santa to impossibly drop his fat fucking lard ass through the chimney. The flashback is suddenly cut short by the sound of blaring gunfire, as faceless mooks swarm around the main character's location, moving in unison to their boss (identified by the fact that he's wearing a hat) barking orders to "cut that fucker's head off" and so on and so on. The main character's eyes, meanwhile, suddenly pop open. He's driven, he has new purpose. And he...

I'm getting distracted. That'll ungracefully segue towards another theme for another day. Along with distraction, which seems to be my M.O. nowadays.

Where was I? Ah, yes. Nostalgia. For me, nostalgia isn't viewing happy experiences through a filtered, hazy, sepia-toned lens. That isn't to say that I don't partake in revisiting happier moments in my life, be it while farming my memory for applicable vignettes to keep my students entertained, or while taking a shit. Either/or. Happy moments in my life are abundant and plentiful when I'm in the best of moods, or far and few in-between in my more sour days. I'm just that kind of person.

But wait, I'm getting off-topic yet again. My brand of nostalgia is keenly set on the negative moments in my life, where I found myself emotionally tested by shitkickers, assholes, and all-around fuckheads. Sticking close to that tired-out cliche regarding that which doesn't kill me, I've found that my nostalgia, when necessary, often takes the form of a certain year spent in a certain Chinese city prior to the prospect of marriage, let alone dating rearing its head.

I had something else I wanted to talk about, but a combination of laziness and forgetfulness has caused me to all forget about that. So fuck it. No deviation.

I survived close to an entire year of a 30 year-old homosexual suicide-attemptee roommate who said he was and then wasn't in love with me, but would try to subtly menace me towards guilt when I forced him to stray closer to the latter.

This is nothing, this... this place that continues to rot itself inside out. I've been through worse shit.

This is nothing.