SelfAbsorbed.ME : ‘It’s Your Life, We Just Write it Funnier’

I feel a bit foolish. For the majority of the summer, my posts have been plagued with the angst-ridden tone of a scorned lover (for proof, look no further than exhibit A | B | C). Logically, my Man-made break-up with Jake wasn’t that big of a deal. We weren’t even an official item–more like two accessories that seemed to match quite nicely, but remained just as functional on their own. So why can’t I just let it go?

It’s not so much that I’m obsessing over Jake. Whatever. My brofriend Will confirmed that he was a “wiener” and I don’t mind sticking to that conclusion. Anyone who could actually date my new roommate has to be, at worst, psychotic, at best, just not my type.

Still, for a second there, I stopped being completely and utterly single. Now I have to start back at square one, bravely barreling into the great unknown of the New York dating scene. My issue is not about Jake or Man, but rather about me, myself, and I–a hopelessly self-involved, no doubt deranged clique. Such company left me feeling…low. Think opening credits of Bridget Jones Diary. Thus began a process I felt was necessary to dull the disappointment of my dateless state…

Step 1: The Regression Sessions
While some might have been butting at the stable door, raring to get back in the ring, I didn’t feel particularly inspired by the thought of hitting the town. I wanted to be distracted, entertained, whisked away from the mundane reality of my everyday life. I wanted television.

I found myself spending inordinate amounts of time on Hulu rewatching the entire first season of Roswell, a show that I kept up with in middle school because it was on after Dawson’s Creek. Though Roswell once played second fiddle to Dawson and his band of blubbering blabbermouths, now all I can say is WOW–this show is AMAZING (if you’re into hot teenage aliens and heart-breaking human-alien relationships). Its premise is similar to Twilight, but better. I find sparkly teen vampires a tad overrated.

I spent an entire weekend watching the first 22 episodes of Roswell and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I really did feel like I was twelve again. And it was glorious.

But tragedy struck Sunday afternoon: I had watched the last episode of season 1 and, despite googling this and that, binging and banging my way around the web, I could not find the premiere of season two. Perhaps it was for the best. Though my love of Roswell hasn’t diminished, I realize that I can’t hide behind a high school drama forever, especially one that only lasted three seasons.

So, I crawled out of my cocoon quite seamlessly, just as the aliens had emerged from their incubation pods at the human age of six.

But I wasn’t putting my hands up with all the single ladies, all the single ladies quite yet. Stay tuned for the next chapter of self-absorption…

Continue to Part II right here, right now!

Photo Credits: www.sbs.com, powerofnature.livejournal.com