My idea of fun

X tells me he’s taken everything he could get his hands on, from weed to ecstasy to antidepressants. He’s worked, worked out, read, stayed in bed, isolated himself, distracted himself, socialised, philosophised, stayed drunk for months, travelled and taken courses. He even got laid once, and still this feeling of desolation pursues him. Like it’s on a mission! he says.  Like it was there before him and will be there after him. It lies in wait for him, he says, no, stretches out before him, no, surrounds him like a wasteland, no, weighs on him like a black cloud, drops him in a hole and so on. Is it you, he says, are you following me? Maybe I just need to get laid again, find a girlfriend and propagate, do some good in the world, start wearing a suit, get a chinchilla, chill out, get a life and have some fun.