The Truth about the Unexpected Danger of Being Yourself
I felt a splitting headache — hangover, again, I concluded.
I was awakened by the beeping sound of my alarm. That, I realized, meant that it was noon and that I had to get up and that I could attend the late afternoon lecture if I would be really fast. (I had stopped caring for morning classes a long time ago.)
Still in bed, the metally, disgusting scent of old alcohol reached my nose. Flashes of last night came back. It had been a usual weekday evening at my fraternity house, meaning I didn’t really remember a lot.
Head pounding, I got up. I checked the room — no vomit, thank God. My eyes told me that the sink was dirty and my nose informed me that it was high time to change the sheets — probably the last time was months ago.
Getting dressed, I accidentally caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I had gained twenty kilos since I moved here, for sure.
I looked like a fat, homeless person.
By my own lights, I was a loser.
I felt an impulse to cry — what, for God’s sake, was I doing with my life? — but repressed it.
If I could just prevent confrontation with reality, everything would be fine. Besides, I didn’t have time for this kind of bullshit.
