Miss Misery by Andy Greenwald Page A

friend Bryce actually went so far as to create a superhero alter ego for me: The Amazing Sublimated Man. A catchy name, but I was no doubt the only superhero in history to have both sides of his identity be equally mild-mannered. The gist of Bryce’s argument was that if something was really bothering me, I’d always be the last to know it.
    And so it was with this summer: I had barricaded myself rather handily in the days since Amy left. As an only child I was always more than capable of being alone, of entertaining myself, but this was something different. It was possible, I realized, to waste a season. You might not think so, but it’s true. Days go by whether we want them to or not. You can ride them like an escalator: Stick your hands in your pockets and hope you see something worthwhile along the way. Or you can hop on that same escalator and give it an extra push, take the steps two at a time: Don’t just give yourself over to the momentum; help it out. Get where you’re going faster and with clean intent of purpose, even if where you’re going happens to be another escalator, with another one waiting at the top of that.
    I didn’t need Bryce to tell me that something was wrong, but I had no idea in the world how to fix it.
    Amy had been gone for nearly six weeks, and I had barely left my apartment and accomplished none of my work. The book seemed like a fever dream from a different life; so, in fact, did Amy. During the long mornings when I’d surfed blogs and sports Web sites and listened to Fleetwood Mac records and drunk my coffee in tiny sips to make the excitement of it last longer, I didn’t necessarily feel like I was retreating from the world. I honestly couldn’t think of anything else to do. The rhythm of life without Amy was hypnotic, easy, and lulling. I didn’t notice the quiet in the apartment anymore, the spaces where her voice would have been. The more time I spent alone, the easier it was to be alone. And then the goal became finding a way to stay alone.
    There was my fake diary, of course, which was becoming more and more out of control by the day. But the things that I found myself typing into it were fantasies—a useful vehicle to imagine myself out of my predicament. But the rock-star schmoozing and the anonymous hookups weren’t the things I really wanted; I wasn’t even capable of doing them. Writing the diary made me feel vibrant and mysterious, but it was nothing more than an artful bit of miscasting. In reality, I was the good guy. I was the guy with the girlfriend, the good credit rating. I was dependable. Trustworthy. Steadfast.
    Safe.
    There had been times—sure, many times—when I had been tempted to be otherwise: a fleeting kiss with a sophomore theater student during a drunken visit to Bryce’s college; a few joints with Amy at the beach; an offer of an Ecstasy tablet at New Year’s. But the problem with my brain was that it always clicked a few steps ahead: I saw the potential outcomes before I even did the deed. And so nothing illicit ever seemed quite worth it. Going out and clubbing and living that life was, at its root, hollow. I knew it, so I didn’t do anything about it.
    And now I just didn’t do anything at all.
    I sighed again. Went to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of orange juice. Came back and read through some diaries. Leslie was moving to Berlin in the fall for a semester abroad. Paige was outlining the six rules of a guilt-free hookup. Ashleigh was fighting with her parents again, with her sister, with her life. And Miss Misery? I didn’t know; I always saved the best for last.
    I knew from recent postings that she had made it to New York City safely, though the city that she described in her first few alcohol-fueled and exhaustion-drenched diary entries was nothing at all like the city I lived in. She was magical like that, transforming every scenario, every street corner, every bar