Legendary Cringe: The Would-Be Galactic Champion
circa 2013.

On the literal edge of his seat. Pulsing, shaking. He is largely unresponsive during battle if not curt.
His fingers pulsate and tremble with nervous energy over the backlit keys of the expensive laptop his father toiled for. Striking them in unison with ferocious mouse clicks creates a symphony of ventilated aggression.
The air is positively thick with early summer humidity as his jaw clenches and chair creaks against hard floor surface. His legs dance beneath a rotting wood table on which his betrothed rests. He answers an innocuous question about potential plans for the still early day with incredulity:
“This is my plan.”

I have been dispatched to survey the mental condition of my childhood friend, from here on referred to as “The would-be Galactic Champion.”
Unlike his peers, the would-be Galactic Champion has not cracked a book, fashioned a flash card or constructed an outline in weeks. Academic probation and unemployment have green lit a libidinous indulgence in interstellar fantasy conflict. He has stopped attending class and plays computer games all day.
The would-be Galactic Champion fancies wearing his sunglasses just about twenty-four hours a day. He insists celery is a source of hyper nutrition.
He is the type to contradict you on the most benign issue just to have something of impetus to say.
Would-be Galactic Champion will happily provide tidbits about the structural integrity of the Great Pyramids of Giza to a bobbing head blasting contemporary pop ballads. Given no prompting, he might fervently insist on explaining the fundamental problem with mass-market “MOBA” computer games. Your attention is hardly a prerequisite for his passionate ramblings.

He laments his massively hindering and lethargic bandwidth speed almost as much as coin operated laundry:
“Why can’t they invent a hybrid washer/dryer machine that both washes and dries in the same unit!? It’s literally the most ridiculous thing that they haven’t invented that and it’s like why even do laundry. Why walk back and fourth to the laundry three separate times? I can’t even find the motivation to do laundry these days knowing the total obviousness of it. And quarters. Don’t even get me started on quarters. Where do people even find quarters?”
Today is the beginning of the end for the class of U.C Davis 2013.
Finals dawn for many on a scorching Saturday in June. Outside, the thriving oak trees are presently accosted by the buzz-saw like song of the cicada. Their abrasive song pervades the comfortable insides of the one-bedroom apartment paid for by the would-be Galactic Champion’s father.
The rare insect is investigated on Wikipedia and we learn of their proclivity for tree sap. Cicadas are romanticized as a creature that sings until it dies.

I knew something was zonked inside my old friend when he punched a hole through the dry wall in response to a persistent connection lag.
To make use of all the free time at the apartment, he gawks at a number of Japanese cartoons via a network of illicit streaming websites. This morning, while not so patiently waiting for an episode of Dragon Ball Z to buffer, he is nostalgic about our days in public school.
We reach a rare agreement regarding the unpleasantness of waking up for school related activities. As a former varsity swimmer, the would-be Galactic Champion used to arrive poolside practically in the middle of the night to endure grueling drills.
With a notable amount of lucidity and gravity over breakfast, he relayed a reoccurring scenario in which he grudgingly dragged himself out of bed for training around four in the morning on a freezing night. He swam many, many laps and said the whole time he was petrified he might fall asleep in mid-stroke and drown. Finally, the whistle blows and he hoists himself from the pool to mount the locker room stairs. But he slips. And he’s falling back, and back, into the water. Then he’s awake.
His mother is knocking at the door — it’s time for practice.
Other favorite activities include creating translucent aquamarine boxes by dragging his mouse across the desktop of his brand new Macintosh.
When momentarily forced to share his hard-wired internet with yours truly, the would-be Galactic Champion slumps listlessly over his desk. I return it within a timely manner, though not before absorbing a litany of passive aggressive comments from him during the painstaking interval. When I’m done checking email, he snatches back the cable with a flourish and replaces his connection while sighing in a sedated, non-ironic manner:
“I’m free again.”
