The ultimate test to know how common you are
I thought I was there
I looked at the metro stops I had left. I thought I was right: there were more than five stops for me to step down.
There were many things I thought wrong that day.
My face is sweaty. All my skin feels dirty and sticky. All my acne is swollen and reappearing. It’s always the same when I move out: something ugly comes out.
You are not a teenager anymore
That’s what my new flat mate says to me–as in I should take more care of myself.
What most annoys me of being tired and sweaty is putting myself into situations I don’t want to go through. A part from growing up is accepting that you will not learn from the first time you make a mistake. Probably the second time the lesson is not yet learned.
After the hustle I find myself in a table from the Ikea bar waiting for someone else to pick me up while smelling all the horrible smells from the food they sell there. A mixture of bread and meat and ketchup and mayonnaise.
In my table there are two trays. I don’t want to take them away because I am afraid the Ikea people might throw me out. I can see and smell the residual food that other people did not ate. I would have never combined lentils and ketchup and raw fish in the same bite.
Although I encourage everyone to write wherever they are, it must look like a crime for the people who are carrying a tray full of disgusting food that might become cold in a matter of 40 seconds desperate to sit down.
The Ikea bar is as full as it is disgusting and people parade with an alarmed gaze because they unconsciously know it will taste worse that it would have done before if they can’t find a seating place.
They cling their eyes on me to point out I am the one who is bringing chaos to this place unlike themselves.
I go back inside my mind to get away from worries I can’t hold and I project myself on the things I was doing minutes before. I was carrying one of those yellow bags that are so so wide that if you put something inside you worry it might fall out from the other side.
I walk with that and I picture myself throwing things in there that do not make sense at all or that are not supposed to be thrown together–a jar and a bulb. A wooden desk and a children’s pink chair.
I know everybody thinks the same and I feel the least special person from all the special people who have come up with that thought first. I might still be special by realizing that on my own. I might still be special for going there alone because every couple knows there’s a potential to break up.
I hate being around so many people and it is even worse to sense I don’t care about that thought at all. I could shout it out loud and not be ashamed of it because I know other special people have had thought that before.
I hate being common and I find myself in the commonest place on Earth. Not having enough, I write about being common in the commonest place on Earth as if both concepts together could become cancelled.
Then I think about writing something else but I can’t remember what that else might be. While thinking it, I thought it was a masterpiece. It never is.
I hate being common because that means I will still fight with my parents every time we see each other.