Affirmative, by Sylvie Krekow

Illustration by Adela Yawitz, CC '12

He’s looking a little pudgy lately. Why do I spend, like, twenty minutes on the treadmill, once a week, if he’s going to just let himself go? What are we, married? Ugh, he’s finally getting out of bed. And he wants me to walk with him to class. Sorry, I think I just developed a debilitating case of the regrets; I’m going to skip today. Don’t wait up!

I don’t know why I keep getting sucked into doing things with him. Last night he dragged me to a shitty cover band of the Counting Crows or something and I had to drink myself into a borderline CAVA-worthy state just to refrain from slitting my wrists. That’s probably why I let him touch my left boob on the cab ride back—at least until the cab driver threatened to kick us out because I started dry heaving.

I’m really not trying to be a heartless bitch, but I haven’t had a case of buyer’s remorse this bad since Skinny Girl margarita mix came out. The only time we’ve ever talked at length is this one time I was so high I ended up ordering HamDel delivery just for a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. In retrospect, both were terrible decisions. I think I told him I was “obsessed” with Morrissey—wow. Like that’s something that hasn’t been said by every college student who smokes weed before.

And it’s so embarrassing when he tries to hang out with my friends. The other night he yelled “Ni hao!” at my friend Lee and started talking to him about communism. Um, hello, Lee grew up on 5th & Park, not a rural village in China. I don’t even want to introduce him to my friends who are actually ethnic. Can you even imagine? Also, let’s talk about his super-endearing quirks for a second? Like his refusal to eat anywhere besides John Jay (“Dude, have you ever had their mint-chip lactose-free fro-yo? Sick!”) and his insistence that, yes, longboarding down College Walk wearing Kanye glasses is somehow “collegiate-hip.” Also, I borrowed his computer the other day and realized his homepage was Thought Catalog. Yikes. And let’s not kid ourselves, he’s not that attractive. I’m fairly certain at this point I’m taller than him, despite his pathetic insistence that he’s 5’11”. I’ve really only kept him around this long because I know he’s getting a job at Goldman when he graduates. But at this point, why date a banker bro if the thought of having weekly Barney’s binges followed by the tasting menu at Per Se doesn’t even turn me on anymore?

Most pathetically, he’s just a terrible boyfriend. For Valentine’s day I expected, at the bare minimum, a dozen hand-cut organic locally grown hydroponically cultivated Casablanca Lilies and a Diamants Légers bracelet from Cartier. Instead, I got a look that said, “I promise to go down on you for once tonight,” and a heart-shaped box of chocolate from Duane Reade. Vom. Speaking of eating out, he just texted me asking if I wanted to grab dinner. I guess tonight’s the night to tell him we have about as much of a future as Bobbi and Whitney.

Negative, by Adam Kuerbitz

Illustration by Adela Yawitz, CC '12

She’s so hot. I almost can’t bring myself to leave, she looks so good asleep—but I’ve been late for this class three times already and the TA is starting to notice. He gives me that horrible little smirk and makes a check on some piece of paper. I didn’t know when I signed up for 9 a.m. “Metropole and Colony” that I would have a girlfriend three weeks into the semester. There should be some kind of allowance for that.

She’s worth it, though. Last night we went downtown for a Black Keys cover band at Webster Hall and got super sloppy at a whiskey bar in Alphabet City. We fooled around in a cab on the way home until the cab driver nearly pulled over on the FDR and kicked us out. Brooklyn was flying by so fast and she was so into me. I was like Michael J. Fox in Bright Lights, Big City, minus all the heartache. Was that a book too?

I don’t mean to sound like a 16-year-old girl, but I haven’t felt this secure in a relationship in a long time. Things with Sara never really panned out and, when I’m honest with myself, I kind of knew they wouldn’t. She was too into herself and her stupid friends. Not Sylvie, though. I can’t have the most earnest two-hour conversation with someone about the merits of Morrissey’s career with the Smiths versus his solo work and not be convinced she’s my soulmate. I was beaming for days after that conversation just thinking about what our life will be like together. I bet she’s the kind of a girl who wouldn’t object to giving our daughter a guy’s name like Ryan or something.

I’m really integrating myself into her friend group, too. I think I hit it off with that guy with all the tattoos in Sanskrit the other night talking about Free Tibet. The Japanese really need to get up on that situation. It’s so cool that her friends are so engaged with human rights events. I definitely need to read up on that— that guy was looking at me kind of funny.

I also love how she doesn’t get on my ass about silly girl crap. Like the other day when she was going to spend Valentine’s Day with her friend who works at Google? So cool. So low-key. Didn’t have to buy flowers or nothing. So I made a decision last night while I was watching Sylvie fall asleep. She does this adorable thing where she rubs her feet together an even number of times when she rolls onto one side. Melts my heart. Anyway, I’m going to ask her to come home with me over Spring Break. Her friends all want to roadtrip to some music festival in Pennsylvania, but I don’t think she really wants to go. We’re definitely at that point where I need to make a move to show her how serious I am about this. I’ll take her out for dinner tonight and ask her then.