Since antiquity, humans have speculated as to the nature of the underworld, the morbid abyss to which evil souls are condemned to sit for eternity and repent for their sins. The very thought of Hell, the vast unknown, and torture that extends beyond time and space has inspired crushing fear in ordered societies throughout history. Truly, though, the question has always been "what", not "why".
Mankind, look no further. I shall here reveal to you once and for all the true face of Hell.
I can list maybe one or two good things about being home.
1) I get to listen to good talk radio live.
2) I don't pay for food.
That second one shouldn't even count, since whenever I don't pay for food I have to spend four-and-a-half hours out with my family I could be doing something more productive, like staring at the wall.
Really, NovA is the greater of two evils. Williamsburg is plagued by frat boys who drink Natty Light and take advantage of Freshmen girls. NovA is plagued by aging frat boys who drink Red Wine and take advantage of their ugly girlfriends. The most pronounced difference really is that the ones at NovA all think that they went to Harvard University because they hold a 9-5 in Reston, and as such carry an air of swagger around with their Brooks Brothers that makes me want to throw up all over my long-sleeved black Merdona shirt I got at target for less than a bag of popcorn at Reston Town Center (Watchmen is good, especially if you like glowing cancerous penis).
What really distinguishes Northern Virginia is that 99% of the people have the Apple mentality: you should refurnish your house to match your iPod. These guys land a job doing god knows what (if they have to wear a suit to work, you will know, because they will keep it on all day so that you know they are important), they get a Blackberry or some analogous contraption and then they think they're Bill Gates and Paris Hilton combined. Got hair? Slick it back. Don't play sports? Buy $500 golf clubs. Don't play golf? Buy $1000 golf clubs. Burn your T-Shirts, buy polos, buy sunglasses worth as much as a developing country, get the khakis, get designer jeans, and only eat at Chipotle.
Speaking of Apple, after trying for four months to resurrect my iPod I got 5 years ago, I called the time of death and went to the Apple store in Tysons to buy a new iPod. I should have just put a nail gun to my balls and pulled the trigger, because it would have been almost as painful and cost me about $200 less. In my admittedly modest recollection, stores traditionally operate in this fashion:
- You look for what you want. If you can't find it, you ask someone.
- When you find it, you pick it up and bring it to the cashier.
- The cashier facilitates an exchance in which your cash is traded for their their goods in an amount quoted prior to your meeting via a price tag.
- Get the hell out.
Such is not the case with the Apple store. It turns out that the Apple store is not run like traditional establishments, an astonishing parallel to their products, since neither works worth a damn.
Something like this has gone down before every visit I've had to the Apple store (which total one):
- Before you enter the store, drop to your knees and pray there's no one in there that recognizes you.
- Enter the store, find object you need.
- Attempt to pick it up.
- It's locked to the stand, dumbass.
- Try and find a box below the stand with the object you need.
- There is only air below the stand. You look like a tool.
- Look for a ticket for the object you need behind the price tag.
- Nope, there's just a price tag there, and you removed it. Everyone's looking at you.
- Don't put it back, it's too late. Just walk away.
- Swallow your pride and ask someone for help.
- Realize that they (obviously) have all of their iPods behind the checkout counter, and you should get in line.
- Talk to some soccer mom about how much this system sucks, and be ignored the second you drop a curse word.
- Some guy with the satellite PDA from Doom III flanks you and asks if you're there to check out, even though you have nothing.
- Tell him you want an iPod.
- He pulls you out of line in pedophile fashion and begins to offer you one of four million accessories/warrantees/sexual favors.
- Five minutes later he produces a plastic tube and charges you $206.45 for it. You pray there is an iPod inside, but at this point you could care less.
- Get the hell out.
This is really a metaphor for what home is to me. Everything is nicer, but at a terrible cost. People expect you to do things you don't want to do, because you're used to lazying about in your dorm room all day. They act offended when you sleep until 11 a.m. because they have to work.
When I go out, I am reminded of why I stay inside. Everyone has the "I'm the shit" aura. They want you to see the Starbucks. They want you to see their Sushi lunch. They want you to verify their empty existence, as if they are trying to say "Yeah, look, you thought I was stupid, but I made it." I take such intense pleasure in ignoring them. When I see in my periphery that they are looking at me, begging for a moment of recognition, it's not even scorn, it's pity.
At college, the douches are at least confined to certain quarters, and like a defensively dangerous animal, they will leave you alone if you leave them alone. Women will get drunk and forfeit their principles, claiming it was nothing in an attempt to recover their self-esteem. The men will laugh, and add another tick to their walls. The wonderful thing about this is that it is so remarkably simple to remove yourself from this tragic opera. Surely there is no more apt definition of "Hell" than when the things you despise are forced upon you.
My girlfriend is overseas having the time of her life. I am sitting at home, too embarrassed to go out with my family, stricken with pneumonia, shamefully listening to my new iPod. I've gained 10 lbs of pure fat. Every time I crack my neck, I pray that this is the one where I push it too far and sever my neck bone. The best time I've had so far on this break is when I was in the doctor's office and I could lie down by myself on the patient bed an enjoy 5 minutes of sweet silence. After it was over, I was approached by a man more successful than I will ever be who told me a violent bacteria is attacking my right lung, which is why it feels like I've been punched in the chest eight hours of every day.
Thank goodness, I reply. At least someone's having a good time.
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