Cat sat across from me as she drank her chai tea. My cigarette lit a fluorescent orange and the smell of smoke invaded the air of the people eating around us. We were having one of our weekly existential conversations. We have the kind of conversations where best friends entertain each other’s self-absorbed visions of the world and dribble coffee on their chins. That night’s conversation had been strolling along as it normally did and my coffee was a dark black broth with four packets of Splenda.
‘The future is never going to happen unless you make it happen,’ Cat said. ‘If you get a new job, you’ll meet new people, maybe even good-looking ones.’
Just like that, a big boner of reality raped my good mood. Usually we’d talk about what happened the past week, then talk about what we want to be when we grow up, then just go back and forth, over and over again. It had become a song, a duet, a chorus of hopeless rationalizations