Lately, I've been cultivating my inner monologue. It makes it easier to cope. I walk to class with my headphones on, casting a misanthropic eye up and down the Walk. I laugh incredulously when people invite me to play in the snow. I show up to parties sober, and write bitingly about those parties on this very page the Thursdays after.
It is February, and cynicism is in.
I'm not a fan of the general trend, but I understand where it comes from. Anytime of the year where I spend more time getting dressed than getting laid, I'm not going to be too pleased. It's gray outside, I am mired in relationship troubles and my car won't start. I can't walk to class without crying from the wind. I question everything I do. I formulate depressing hypotheses, such as "I am addicted to vice." Sometimes, I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling, softly wondering who I am. Venting is healthy, but something I rarely do. And when you're hiding away your sadness, you need a cover-up. Cynicism can be a way to make it through the season.
What surprises me, however, is the level of acceptance such bitching brings. People don't just tolerate it; they love it. They soak it up, this mediocrity. They take it from you and wear it like a sweater. "A sour view on the world?" they exclaim, before trying to touch your penis. I have to beat them away with a stick. A cohort in maliciousness is like handing them a drug.
Eventually, you get knocked back into shape. It gets warmer; the sun comes out. You remember what it is like to fall in love. Someone whose opinion you greatly respect will overhear your ugly witticisms some day down the line and will call you out on it. You will repent. There will come that moment of realization, as if stepping through a glass, or removing a mask from your face, when you step back and think to yourself, "What the fuck did I just do?"
But until then, there is February. It is cold; it will remain cold. Popularity is at an all time high, and cynicism, unfortunately, is in.
