Page 2 of Well, Actually
“That’s the dispassionate spirit! See you later, dickhead.” She jogs down the stairs to catch her train.
Ducking my chin against a sharp autumn breeze, I trudge the remaining blocks to my building. I huff up the five flights to my matchbox-sized apartment, stripping off my scarf and coat and dropping them to the floor as I flick on all the lights.
My place, which at one time felt significant and special to early-twenties-me, is sad and pitiful in the tepid October evening light. The popcorn walls are stale gray, a color that artfully reflects my sense of self, and my hand-me-down furniture isn’t as quaint as it once was. When you’renearingthirty, without the automatic confidence boost of fullybeingandembracingandlovingthirty, your thrifted, cigarette-and-vanilla-scented velvet green couch isn’t the hipster, art-nouveau centerpiece you thought it was.
I’ve technically lived alone in my cramped one-bedroom since college, but it’s only within the past year or so that I’ve actually feltlonely. Those first few years after graduating were filled with a restless hope shared among my friends, a stream of them crashing on my couch for months at a time as they waded from one situation to another until they found their footing.
I didn’t even pretend to be annoyed at having squatters. I loved coming home to Donna stretched out on my carpet,crystals and tarot cards flung around her as she’d excitedly tell me about an energy shift or new reading for the day. Or Ray with a drama-filled Grindr incident he’d relay over mouthfuls of takeout. Even Aida had a not-so-put-together phase of unemployment before Soundbites where she’d alternate between manically cleaning my tiny apartment and moping on my couch. Despite her cloud of restlessness, every night ended up having a giddy, slumber-party feel for the six months she stayed with me.
But Donna migrated upstate where the energy was clearer, and Ray truly found The Ones and moved to Queens with his throuple and some sourdough starters, and Aida worked her way up to media producer, eventually getting me a writing gig for the celebrities and entertainment section—which was supposed to be temporary—that somehow morphed into me shoving dick-esque foods in my mouth and outwardly displaying my misery for laughs.
But even as my friends stepped into adulthood without me, it felt okay. I always had a relationship, or at least a situationship, to fill my apartment with noise and company.
Lana, who I started seeing around the time Aida got her own place, was great. The love of my alternate-universe life. She wasn’t a believer in monogamy, and while I tried my best to be chill for the eight months we dated, my ugly jealous streak didn’t play well with an open relationship. We dragged out our breakup for months of emotionally charged hookups, but she eventually moved out west, leaving my heart a bit bruised and my booty call-less.
Cal was next, a finance bro who I wasted over a year on. But still, even an annoying talking head in my apartmentdroning on about crypto and his AI “art” felt more comfortable than being alone with my thoughts for more than a few hours.
Then there was sad-boy Dom, and musician Tyler, and fashion designer Lisa, all burning bright for the first few months of dates and texting, then fizzling out as the newness withered and the reality of my sarcasm and emotional detachment became far less charming and much more draining.
Now, my friends are outpacing me in adulthood with their fulfilling careers and relationships while my love life is as dry as burnt toast. I don’t even have a cat to blunt my loneliness.Marinating in my patheticness, I change into my sweatpants, burrow into a nest of blankets, and pour a glass of prosecco.
And another.
Oops, and a third because in this economy I can’t afford to waste leftover bubbly, and I have far too much class to mix the flat leftovers with orange juice tomorrow morning.
Nothing pairs as well with a tipsy Friday night in as much as a social media doomscroll. Lab rats probably have greater resistance to stimulus than me at this point. The algorithm, which usually shows me unhinged shit posts and soup recipes, has pivoted to videos of men talking about how to be a supportive partner and offering practical examples.
While I don’t, by principle, enjoy seeing men inflate their egos further (or talk in general), these content creators seem to offer genuinely helpful advice and action items to support a significant other, so I don’t feel disdain quite so acutely as I usually would.
And then, I get the jump scare of all jump scares.
Him.
Dark, wavy hair. Piercing gray eyes and offensively thick lashes framed by tortoiseshell glasses. A jawline that could tempt a nun to sin and a rumbly voice you can’t help but imagine between your thighs.
Gorgeous and he damn well knows it.
Rylie fucking Cooper.
I’ve worked hard over the years to train my algorithms not to show me this asshole despite his prevalence and ever-growing fanbase, but the universe is a messy bitch that loves disrupting my peace of mind.
Rylie Cooper has built a platform on the fallacy that he’s the prophetic one to guide men out of toxic masculinity. This successful long con has earned him a heavily sponsored and well-listened-to podcast and over one million followers worshiping his hollow gospel.
The hypocrisy is unmatched.
I’ve always been the type of person to poke a bruise, press my tongue to a cavity, just to see how much I can make it hurt, and obsessively watching his videos over and over again when they pop up is no different, the rage growing hotter with each caress of his deep voice. This time, like most times, he’s talking about what makes a man a good partner, particularly in bed. As if this discarded foreskin of a person has any clue.
“If this describes your man,” Cooper starts in his low, sensual voice, holding a teeny-tiny bedazzled mic up to his perfectly formed lips, “he’s not the man for you.”
He launches into a spiel of poignant—if not obvious to actively dating women everywhere—reasons to be wary ofcertain behaviors, a floating notes app list greenscreened behind him. My blood starts to boil at the final three points.
“If he’s dedicated to a frat to the point that he refers to other men not biologically or familially related to him as his blood brothers, run.” He levels a devastating look at the camera, humor glinting in his eyes. “And if you’ve had the unfortunate experience of being in said frat house, run to a clinic that can immediately test you for communicable diseases.”
He pauses for half a second with perfect (fucking gag me) comedic timing. “If you try to tell him before sex or during foreplay what you really want, and he waves you off like he knows all that, then is six inches to the left, he’s not the man for you. Do not return to his bed.” There’s an almost-imperceptible cocky tilt to his lips, like this is a problem he’s never created.
“And if you have real feelings for him or he says he has real feelings for you, then he ghosts you, he is, most definitely, not the one for you. Protect your peace, delete his number.” This one is delivered with raw sincerity, a stunning good guy acknowledging the plight of so many women.
What a crock of horse shit.
