There are some facts of life that scientists simply can't explain, such as the half-life of the proton or the shelf-life of a Twinkie. Perhaps the most perplexing of all natural phenomena is the one-body problem: loneliness. I don't have the answer for why people get lonely; I'm just good at noticing when they do and making fun of them for it. What follows is a day in the life in the overcast shadow of Loneliness based on true events, events that happen every day in my head, and things I've read on the side of a cereal box.
It starts with an email whose subject is "party." You don't get this email. You get "Fwd: Fwd: Re: Fwd: Re: party" from the only person in your address book. The party happened five days ago, had a movie you've never heard of as the theme, and took place off campus at one of those cool houses, "____ House," that you've never been to. You forward the message to your other email account, a.lone@gmail.com.
You shower. In the process, you lock yourself out of your Chamberlain single. You have to walk in your towel over to the tower in order to call security. The students in Thorne dining hall watch your journey; it is cold and windy, and they are unimpressed.
When security arrives to let you into your room, they happen upon a half-empty bottle of cooking sherry which you had purchased in order to bake a quiche for your ailing great-grandmother who ails from cerebral palsy, leukemia, leprosy, piracy, bad breath, breast, colon, and testicular cancer, onomatopoeia, sopapia, and hemorrhoids. Security makes you remain in your towel and do push-ups, then schedules a time for you to go before the J-board, alone, to be punished for this offense. You contemplate jumping out of your small Chamberlain window. You decide that with all the rains that have happened this season a fall from the ground floor, approximately four feet above the soft soil, is unlikely to transport you from this world of pain to a world without J-boards, party emails, and card-access prison cells. You get dressed.
You submit an entry in the student digest: "Lost my cell and north face fleece at ____ house Thursday night!" You didn't; you didn't even get the email until today. You just want people to think you were there. You don't own a cell, and fleece makes you itch.
You get your bag lunch, like you do every day, at 11:12. Two plain bagels, cream cheese, two packages of saltines, and milk. You sit in the back of class, rustle your paper bag and awkwardly eat the saltines, being careful to bite only when the professor is writing on the board.
On your way back to Chamberlain you avoid the quad, the gym, the union, stairways, hallways, large dogs, and trees that look like people. Since none of your professors know you exist you don't have to do any homework. You do it anyways, but don't hand it in. You check your gmail account and for a moment think you've been invited to a party.
At dinner you sit alone at long table eating overcooked vegetables and undercooked meat. Within minutes the track team snatches all the seats around you, like vultures. They dress alike in t-shirts with inspirational quotes on the back. You're not inspired, and you leave. Once home, you chew in privacy.