There is a part of me that always conforms to aesthetics set by the culture industry. The mere act of seeming “cultured” is determined through the countless stimuli of media.
One of my friends came to visit me in London, temporarily easing a long semester of loneliness through the presence of familiarity. I had just finished my half sleeve, so I had been especially sensitive to my environment relative to things bumping into my arm. Naturally, I wanted to just stay indoors and write my essay that would be due in the next coming days, but I did not want to wish to reduce my friend’s experience in London.
She also experienced heartbreak recently, so our desires to stay indoors matched up. And, since my arm had been incapacitated for the moment, she also cooked some pasta for us for dinner. I went and bought a pint of Häagen Dazs chocolate ice cream, which seemed appropriate since we were both Americans pretending to be more interesting and exotic than we actually were. After we finished dinner, we sat on my bed and ate watched some romantic comedies on Netflix with one spoon exchanged between us.
We watched Crazy Stupid Love with familiar faces like Steve Carell, Ryan Gosling, and Emma Stone, and after we finished that movie, we moved onto re-watching the second season of How I Met Your Mother. Despite only finishing the series in high school, I found it quite surprising how poorly How I Met Your Mother Aged, mainly by its ignorance to basic concepts in gender that have since become popular and its questionable conceptions of what is considered consensual sex. At the time, I considered the series to be funny. I still consider it to be funny in many regards, but now my laug
I found the moment oddly beautiful. Although I have been in London for almost three months now, it was a moment closeness, which is rare moment for me.