This weekend was supposed to be fun. I had plans of stuff to do. I had errands to run, clubs to attend, parties to crash. It was a 3-day holiday weekend, so I could party my ass off, and still have time to get some actual work done. Maybe even clean the house.

So, what did I end up doing? I sat on the couch, did lots of drugs, and watched TV. My roommate, on the other hand, had sex with her boyfriend, ate Indian food and watched belly dancing, made out with her new girlfriend, went to a wild party, went to a club, read two novels, and even worked most of the weekend (please note, as well, that her job is much cooler than mine. She works at the Hard Rock Cafe, while I work as a corporate whore, coding ASP for stock options). I couldn't even get up the energy to read a book on XML that I just picked up.

I sat there most of the weekend, popping way more ephedrine than is healthy, smoking pot, and drinking Natty Boh like it was water. I obsessed about how much more fun she was having than me. She spent six months in Europe a while ago. She smoked hash in Amsterdam. I smoked cheap schwag in some deadhead's basement.

I think I'm beginning to place this weirdly unhealthy and codependent reliance on her to make up for how pathetic my life has become. Sometimes I don't understand what's wrong with me. I do genuinely like myself, maybe even love at times. I consider myself attractive. I'm tall, I dress well (if a bit simplistic and goth most of the time), I'm not fat (although I'm not skinny, either, which bothers me sometimes). I'm intelligent. I make a lot of money. I'm sure my mother would insist that women should be breaking down my door. I'm just too shy and introverted to get to know many people very well. I like myself, yes, but sometimes I hate my life, and the things I do to make it this way.

So, for now, I'll just hide in the comfortable familiarity of my drug-induced state, and gain satisfaction from the fact that at least one person in my house leads an exciting life.