Chick Habit: Chris
WORDS BY Christopher Buchanan & Dalton Feldhut
Not all breakups have to be nasty. Some fizzle out like puny, crippled fires that could never generate enough spark to quite catch; that’s the preferable, sugary kind that you can remember in earnest. Others – oh, Lord – others aren’t like that at all. Other separations are fantastically explosive, and almost impressive, in all their wretched glory; these ones leave ugly warts where there were previously infinitely ongoing fields of potential. Mine fell somewhere in the middle, during late fall.
The winter was mighty cold, and bitter, too. It didn’t ease in at a slow pace, like a usual western winter. Resentful, biting cold winds rushed in every crack of my apartment like they didn’t want to be freezing outside anymore. We were all searching for warmth in places we shouldn’t have been; Johnathan, Dalton and I.
What is the cruel force that drives men to ugly ways in time of self-imposed pains? Testosterone isn't explanation enough. We must have escaped the barbaric, neanderthal pull that guided us toward survival of the bloodline and saying to hell with basic morality! The unfortunate case is that we find strange solace in unbeffiting, raunchy companionship with whoever winks our way during a depressing case of separation.
Whether the breakup was the fault of mine or of hers is still a highly contentious issue in some lower courts. I suppose that could be said about almost every breakup, so that’s neither here nor there. Early winter was sickeningly lonely, regardless of all other facts or fictions.
The winter quarter of my junior year concluded and I learned later that I performed unimpressively on all exams. I had a bad case of the blues, so I decided to phone Johnathan over and get him from Riverside to Los Angeles as a pick-me-up for both me and Dalton. Dalton himself was going through one thing or another, but that’s his business to tell and my secrets to keep.
I can’t tell you when it started – I don’t even think I heard the gun – but we came out of the gates like racehorses on the crazed, winding track of dating apps. The sheer, disgusting vanity! I designed, redesigned, then refurbished and added polish to every miniscule aspect of my profile like a maid out for the mother’s job. Does this picture make me look like a jackass? Is that funny or do I sound like a serial kidnapper? Do I look classy or trashy? Be honest. I took to the game like it was the needle. I swiped like a goddamned madman. It was fun as all hell, nonetheless. We joked and fell in half-baked love and sent messages in shattered bottles that we knew would never get returned, but before it was sent we all shared a moment of suspenseful hilarity that killed every time. It wasn’t about the matches, not even from the beginning; it was about the foul, slippery thrill of the thing.
Notably, I only ever met up with one individual under bizarre circumstances on the cusp of the capricorn’s age, one drizzling, chipper midnight. I found out that night – unfortunately, by an ignorant referential mistake of my own – that my partner-in-grime was genderfluid, preferring the pronouns He/They. I took no issue with the fact, but I am certainly no expert in queer culture, and so our first night getting to know each other was an awkward navigational challenge. That didn’t stop me from braving uncharted waters, however, and I undertook a short-term romp with a temporary boyfriend. It was hardly passionate, but we conversed easily and our system worked simply. Never outside, always in. At times, I felt like a prostitute with a good listening ear.
It didn’t last long, but I liked my one-time John well enough.
Things got grim after that. All forms of fun only last so long before they inevitably become chorish. I would look around and see Johnathan, Dalton and I all throwing likes around like we were at an unseemly strip club on Wednesday, happy hour, tossing miserable singles at employees that were there for the strict purpose of business, of which we had little to offer. But we three had shared so much joy and delight and had an utter ball sending out desperate pleas of Please save me, You can change everything and If you don’t like me back I’ll have nothing’s, that I almost felt cleansed, almost like I wasn’t just another whorish jock ungracefully recovering from infalted dissapoimtment that would pass naturally anyway. All the time, I very much was.
We got off those dreadful apps quickly thereafter, all for wildly different reasons. I’m still not sure if there is a cure for a case of separation. It may not even exist. Is it in the search for this elusive cure that we find ourselves finally content with being alone once again?
Dalton’s Commentary:
I am more than happy to see that at least somebody is keeping an eye on the little things, reminding the rest of us to at least make an attempt at enjoying them. Unfortunately, I find that I have been on the receiving end of some hinge encounters so painfully awkward and quasi-romantic, that a boy of my nature has no choice but to wince as I relive each excruciatingly long second.
A moviegoing outing comes to mind, during which a date of mine and I found ourselves silently and diligently watching some shitty flick about a ravenous, man-killing cocaine bear. The film was truly awful, as was my lack of charisma and candor displayed throughout its painfully long runtime. I’m no mathematician, but if my estimates and calculations are accurate, we shared approximately twenty five words, give or take a few tenths of a decimal to account for the “likes” and “ums”. The all-too-awkward walk home only helped rub salt into what I believe was the real wound; the gaping claw mark left in my wallet by that goddamned junkie of a bear. With each and every step, I could hear those (desperately-needed) thirty eight dollars escape my checking account. Cha ching. Cha ching. Cha ching. Surely every date can’t be like this, right? According to the $168 dollar parking ticket I got on another date a few months later, they very much can.