It was a warm midsummer evening. Walking along the grass with my lovely college friends, we began to debate the ways in which we would achieve ‘fun’ later that night, after smashing out a bit of work.
Detailed plans saw us reaching new levels of excitement: going to cocktail bars we had never tried before, a BBQ in Port Meadow, drinks by the river, corridor cocktail making, watching a film… The world was our oyster and I was its fisherman. I felt alive.
Yet the best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley. The agreed time for enjoyment came and the excuses rolled in; knives stabbing against the possibilities of a happy future.
Some wanted to work, some were skyping friends at home, and some merely could not be bothered to leave the building. I was crushed, triggered, forlorn. And as I began to have flashbacks of early childhood social rejection, with images of my father saying he was too busy to play with me flashing across the canvas of my mind. A single salty tear rolled down my left cheek and dropped to the ground.
All my friends are lazy and I hate them. They can never be bothered to go outside and go on adventures with me and, for that, I am devastated. There is no excuse for this inadequacy to accommodate my neediness. For one thing, most of them do humanities which, as a noun, is listed in the thesaurus as a synonym for ‘nothing’. Even my dear friends who are soon to depart on their years abroad cannot muster the energy to go to the pub. I will not be surprised if, on arrival to pastures new, they will just stay in bed alternating between watching Netflix and excessively sleeping before returning home.
To further understand the anthropological causes behind this phenomena, I managed to keep a few friends engaged long enough to interview them. When asked, “Why can’t you be arsed to do things?” one classicist’s eyes went cold as she uttered the single word, ‘mods.’ Having gently reminded her that mods were over, the colour returned to her cheeks just long enough for her to offer the cryptic, mildy Wildean yet piffy soundbite, “Why do things when you can not do things?”
I was similarly fobbed off by another arsehole friend who failed to respond to my Facebook message asking her this question. When I managed to track her down in the bleakly non virtual realm, ‘real life’, she said she couldn’t be bothered to reply to my message, bringing laziness to a previously unreached level, or maybe she just doesn’t like me that much.
It seems that there is no clear way to get my friends to appreciate their fast diminishing youth and to make the most of what we are constantly told are the best years of our lives. No pressure, but soon we will met by the depressing realities of being chained to a desk from 9- 5, in a world where only the occasional line of coke will stop us from wanting to jump of a bridge. Alternatively, we will be imprisoned by the equally intolerable situation of being stuck back in our teenage bedrooms stared down by a fading poster of a Jonas brother whom we no longer know the name of as we desperately hunt for any type of legal employment.