Put away the denim jackets and suit up in puffy shapeless winter gear, it’s that time of year again. That’s right folks, we’re talking about November: the month of cold comforts. Aren’t we East Coasters lucky?—yet another end-of-semester hibernation period. And of because we’re all holed up in our respective social spheres, it’s also time for the disappearance of strife. Well, not strife as a primal force of irritation and chaos, but strife as arch-nemeses.
I feel like we’re in an argumentative slump, with no focus of anger. What are we bitching about these days—deadlines and chill winds? How pathetic! What happened to September, when every weekend was charged with drama and sexual tension? I used to see people duck and roll their way out of social venues or hear cursing matches outside of house parties. Now people stroll through campus wearing rose-colored glasses, smiling tepidly at their foes. There’s no exchange of verbal assaults anymore. First we got rid of chalking, and now we have umpteen Facebook groups devoted to the art of awkwardness. People can bond over their collection of people they fear/hate and learn to overcome these hostile feelings.
I think that’s bullcrap! I miss having intra-campus strife. Perfect example: does anyone remember Elyssa Pachico—the girl who wrote that Wespeak about how the Argus columnists suck? Well, I thought I formed a beautiful antagonism with her. I sent abusive e-mails and everything, and all I got was a paltry Wespeak and a genuflecting response. I thought she was going to let me have it, especially after four e-mails of acrid banter. It’s true, I wanted Elyssa—as the recurring supervillain in my life. And she didn’t even respond to me! That one-sided tiff has left me a thoroughly unsatiated man.
I’ve searched high and low for someone to square off against. I even went to Mocon by myself (a veritable social suicide), just waiting for some group to try and join my table. I even had a response for these unsuspecting saps: “Buzz off, can’t you see I’m a senior? And for God’s sake take off that stupid-ass hat and buy pants that aren’t twenty sizes too small! No one thinks you’re cool.” And…nothing happened. They just went and sat down at their long table, dishing their dirt and avoiding their own foes for reasons even they forgot. How sad, I can’t even pick fights with people anymore. I’ve been reduced to a Venus fly-trap, jaws open in vain for a pea-brained insect to become ensnared.
“But what about your original sparring partners, Calvin?” asks the voice in my head: Well I can’t rely on them to give me my fix anymore. Our spats are too typical now: requisite snide remark, aversion of gaze, pre-packaged excuse to leave, a wrist flick goodbye. Boring! Spice it up for me, people. It’s not like I want someone to hurl racial epithets at me; I just want someone to hate me for who I am. And deep down, you know you want someone to hate you for who you are too. A consistent nemesis breaks up the monotony in life; it helps you get out of bed and face the day. Think about how refreshed you feel whenever you pass by that person you want to hit in the face with a cold fish and shoot her an icy glare. Even better, doesn’t it feel amazing when you two have an unfriendly chat and you score a victory by implying she has herpes? God, what a rush! Who needs drugs when you can fuel yourself on 100 percent-concentrated Hater-Ade?
It’s times like this when I wish I lived in a universe that revolved around superheroes. Maybe then, I could instantly pick up martial arts, find a mystical staff and be a true hero with interesting foes to fend off. My nemeses could be fanatic spies in skull masks or magnetically charged fiends. As it stands, my current rogues gallery is a paltry mundane list. They’re not even rogues!—they’re just people I think I could invest negative emotions in. At least Superman has colossal malefactors: sun-eaters, mad scientists, psychotic ex-lovers, world-conquerors. Check out my list: imperious teachers, gossip-mongers, unhygienic hippies, that upstart kid who sits in the front of the room and asks a question at the end of class about why American literature is so racialized and expects me to sit there while the professor gives a twenty-minute speech (that douche!). None of these people—not even that nuisance of a student—register as more than a yawn-inducing blip on the radar.
So who’s having the worst week ever?—protagonists. Without conflict and strife, we’re just left to languish in a snooze-fest of impotent plots. Now, we’re expected to go to class and do homework. In a shocking bout of responsibility, I’m actually going to the CRC to find a job and plan my future. I need to place an ad in the personals post-haste: “Benevolent Black Male seeks Antagonist to ridicule and engage in abusive banter. Must hate what I like.” Perhaps it is the lackluster protagonist’s fault. Maybe I should put myself out there more, actively goading the campus. Then again, contention is a two-way street; why should I have to do all the work? And besides I’m not an antagonist whore; I only need two haters.
If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go out and caricature myself, hoping to find that special someone who’ll give me that good verbal abuse. I just want someone to aim a cheap shot at my personality so I can start an ongoing feud. It’s all in an effort to kill this November ennui. Well, maybe not kill it dead, but at least beat it into a coma.
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