I was born a friendless virgin.
During those first months, it was clear that I was depressed. I spent each day at home, lying flat on my back, looking up at the ceiling and thinking, I should really go out and meet people. But I never did. In fact, I don’t think I made a single friend in my first months alive. I was such a loser.
Instead of making connections, I distracted myself with meaningless games. I slept poorly and cried all the time. My life was nothing like “Entourage.” I had trouble meeting women but refused to use Tinder. Looks-wise, I didn’t bring a lot to the table: I had no muscle definition, a chubby face, and a very tiny penis. People would call my naked pictures “cute.”
I’ll never forget the day my mother introduced me to her friend’s daughter, Chelsea. I felt a connection from the moment she peed herself. We had a lot in common—we were both bald and androgynous. Neither of us had teeth. I thought to myself, She might be the one.
Later that night, we were lying side by side on my bed. I wanted to tell her how I felt, but suddenly I was unable to speak, or even to lift my head. My therapist says that’s right—I was literally unable to do those things, and I know what he means: I’m always sabotaging myself.
After Chelsea left, I began worrying that I might be alone forever. Everyone I knew was married—my mom, my dad, and my grandparents. I had started experiencing the pains that came with aging, many of which involved my molars. I felt my mortality. My molar-tality.
by Ben Jurney, New Yorker | Read more:
Image: Jessica Peterson
During those first months, it was clear that I was depressed. I spent each day at home, lying flat on my back, looking up at the ceiling and thinking, I should really go out and meet people. But I never did. In fact, I don’t think I made a single friend in my first months alive. I was such a loser.
Instead of making connections, I distracted myself with meaningless games. I slept poorly and cried all the time. My life was nothing like “Entourage.” I had trouble meeting women but refused to use Tinder. Looks-wise, I didn’t bring a lot to the table: I had no muscle definition, a chubby face, and a very tiny penis. People would call my naked pictures “cute.”I’ll never forget the day my mother introduced me to her friend’s daughter, Chelsea. I felt a connection from the moment she peed herself. We had a lot in common—we were both bald and androgynous. Neither of us had teeth. I thought to myself, She might be the one.
Later that night, we were lying side by side on my bed. I wanted to tell her how I felt, but suddenly I was unable to speak, or even to lift my head. My therapist says that’s right—I was literally unable to do those things, and I know what he means: I’m always sabotaging myself.
After Chelsea left, I began worrying that I might be alone forever. Everyone I knew was married—my mom, my dad, and my grandparents. I had started experiencing the pains that came with aging, many of which involved my molars. I felt my mortality. My molar-tality.
by Ben Jurney, New Yorker | Read more:
Image: Jessica Peterson
