Tales of a maladjusted adult

I’m not sure why I kept going, why despite my repulsion of his dudebroness, if invited to spend time with him, I would. It was easier to pretend at first, my roommate had convinced me that and him and I were compatible on multiple levels. In retrospect I’m not quite sure why I trusted her judgment. It’s dubious at best on a wide variety of subjects, as if she’s just learning how to interact with the world and subscribes to cookie-cutter opinions and schools of thought as per her vision of what’s in vogue in young afropolitan circles, conforming to a carefully curated individuality with near religious fervour.
Still, I listened. The obligatory sexual tension was thoroughly explored by our first three meetings. It felt stilted, like we were re-enacting some pre-ordained script: Insert hand between leg. Touch left breast. Press X for arousal. We had the decency to stop pretending ours was a carnal arrangement after that. No more sexy time. I can’t say I was disappointed by this turn of events. Now there was a chance to develop an actual friendship however, the awkwardness that plagued our initial interactions had not yet subsided. At first I thought it was just the clumsy baby steps of a fledgling relationship. I was very wrong. Socially we were oil and water. In the name of civility, I tolerated his pompous superiority. At least that’s what I told myself; admitting that I was so alone that any presence, even one as patronizing as his, comforted me on a fundamental level was a truth I wasn’t quite ready to confess.

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