Millennials Among the Ruins

By Oswald Kuragin

In a comfortable, middle-class haven, full of liberal arts students, organic coffee shops and vegan pasties, Oswald Kuragin was moving up in the world: working out at the gym three times a week, getting up at 6:55am every morning and arranging his clothes in his wardrobe by genre, material and colour.

Somewhere along the line, it went horr

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oswald Kuragin
• Release date: Feb 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780244449049

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Millennials Among the Ruins

Copyright © 2018 by Oswald Kuragin

This book is also available as an ebook.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

ISBN: 978-0-0000000-0-0 (Paperback)

CONTENTS

Act I: Another Day in Paradise

Act II: Waiting For The Night

Act III: Riders On The Storm

Act IV: No Time To Cry

Act V: How To Disappear Completely

Act I:

Another Day in Paradise

I

Everything is perfect, I think to myself as I gaze around the Student Union bar.

A pleasant scent of whisky fills the air. The room bustles with the chit-chat of the chirpy Friday night crowd, unwinding from the week’s hassle and stress. Up on a raised stage, the university jazz band plays How High the Moon loud enough for us to catch the subtleties of each phrase and the timbres of each instrument, but not so loud as to intrude.

Such precise sound design is important to me.

Edinburgh is a middle-class university. The students gathered around small tables share crisps and bitesize nibbles as they swap stories of lectures, flatmates, and travels. I can feel the atmosphere in my bones, a comforting glow. I note with satisfaction that the air is temperature-controlled and the audience neither too big nor too small. My eyes drift towards the bar and I unconsciously log the wide selection of liquor and light refreshment.

The bar manager has done a good job, hitting all the bases for a mid-budget student crowd. I turn my attention to the decor. All four walls sport well-crafted antique mirrors and picture frames from an older, finer age.

I like this bar. Classy. Organised. Balanced.

I’m studying fashion design, says the attractive, French girl sitting opposite me. She’s in her early twenties and we’ve hit it off well so far, I’m currently trying to design new outfits made from bacteria.

I grow up the materials from scratch and use it in my projects.

Magali has black eyes, as deep as a whirlpool. I fancy her. My mind snaps from the bar aesthetic and back to her. I stumble over my reply.

Wow, that’s pretty amazing, I work in biotech myself actually, I could make you a full-length dress from one of my petri-dishes, I reply, enthusiastically.

I see Magali here most Mondays. Tonight, she chose a long, black dress with lace pattern. It compliments her slender physique and feminine charm. Her light African colouring strikes me as exotic, so I’m trying my best to come across as sophisticated.

She coos excitably. Like me she’s searching for commonalities between us, trying to make the conversation flow.

It’s amazing that we’re so similar! It’s crazy we both speak English, French and German and work with bacteria! A bright smile has lit up her face, contrasted against the subtle evening ambiance. This is going well.

Yes, I’m glad that we can relate to one another on all those levels, I reply.

Where did you learn to speak German? She asks.

I spent half a year in Cologne. Music theory and singing in the choir. I notice Magali shift in her chair and lean forward, a sure sign of interest. I found it a meaningful experience. I could gain an insight into not just the youth culture there but also the general mood of the city. Cologne feels like a small-town yet is sufficiently metropolitan to be multi-cultural and diverse. I explain, trying to paint a realistic picture of my experience there.

I can’t help being as precise as possible. It gives me a sense of order, which matters to me. Magali listens and looks into her glass of wine as she thinks of a way to relate my Cologne experience to herself and thus strengthen our rapport.

I have never been to Cologne myself, she admits, but it sounds like Edinburgh. Although this is the capital of Scotland, it too has a small-town feel. It’s bohemian. The art and culture of the city are so grass-roots. It’s fascinating.

Just a shame the city has gentrified. Now it lacks the originality it once had.

The jazz ensemble has moved on to Blue Monk. Magali’s eyes are shining now with interest. Yes! I agree. All the wine bars and fancy cars are... what is the word... sterile? There is no spirit.

So, do you actually play jazz piano?

Yes, for twenty years. I had a trio down in London, I explain.

That’s amazing, I never could play the piano myself, but I’d love to hear you play. Are you going to play anything for us tonight?

This was just the opening I was waiting for, a chance to show the high value I’d tried so hard to attain. But, I was mindful not to seem too eager to impress.

Possibly, I haven’t played in a while though, I reply, with a deliberate air of modesty.

Go on, go up and play! She says, shaking my shoulder enthusiastically. The weekly jazz night encouraged audience members to step up. I put on my best poker face.

Oh ok, just a few songs.

I want to impress not just this girl, but everyone in the room. I stand up, stride confidently to the stage, and greet the band each with a handshake. They’re all nerds: thick-rimmed glasses, chequered, loose-fitting shirts and beige coloured chinos. The trumpeteer wears a poorly-tailored tweed suit with pocket square. Flash but not quite right on him. My look is equally sophisticated: black jeans with a mauve shirt tucked in and a black pullover, the collar tastefully resting over the neckline. I polish my shoes every week to keep them looking as shiny as possible and they haven’t disappointed tonight.

What shall we do? askes the alto sax player, happy to take my lead.

I’m beginning to see the light.

He looks askance at the rest of the band and they all nod back.

I’m taking a risk. I don’t know the song and have never even heard it. However, I know just playing the chords and looking like I know what I’m doing will see me through.

The drummer counts us in. Looking across the stage I sense immediately that every musician is there for the exact same purpose as myself: to impress the women in the audience. The thought has me instinctively sitting up straight at my piano. I deliberately choose the most complicated chord voicings that I can to prove that I have a deep understanding of music theory and have been playing jazz piano for a long time.

Within minutes my solo section approaches. Then I set off on a highly intricate improvisation with as many trills, ornamentations and dissonant chord voicings as I can possibly squeeze into sixty seconds.

How about that? I ask the crowd, sotto-voce. Looking over across the audience I see two or three jazz enthusiasts clap. Their appreciation makes feel warm inside. I play out the song, acknowledge the light applause with a modest nod, then re-join Magali at the table.

You sound really good, I like how much feeling you put into your music.

Thank you, I haven’t played in a while so I’m a little rusty… I explain, trying to be humble.

No, you’re really good, I didn’t think you sounded rusty.

She loved it.

Oswald Kuragin! You sound really good, you put so much feeling into your music.

That’s my name, but friends call me Ozz.

Thank you, I haven’t played in a while so I’m a little rusty… I explain, trying to be humble.

No, you’re really good! You didn’t sound rusty at all.

Yes, the evening is going well, I congratulate myself. In my own mind, my conversational insights are impressive and I cut a dashing figure. It’s not just my polished wit: even my shoes are shined to perfection. I must ask this girl out on a date at some point, I think. A few weeks of showing off like this and surely Magali will fancy me.

It’s time to wrap up. My performance is finished.

It was lovely to spend the evening with you, Magali, but tomorrow I have work so I need a good night’s sleep. I’ll be here next week though. Please send me a link to your fashion work on Facebook so I can look at it, I say, earnestly.

Hopefully, I hit the right combination of interest and self-regard.

It was great to talk to you as well, Magali replies with a tender smile.

I give her a quick hug before walking out with a self-consciously straight posture. My shoulders sway with confidence but not so much as to give the impression of arrogance. Or at least, that’s my plan.

Cold night air hits my face with a refreshing tingle. I feel so satisfied with myself. Not so much because of Magali’s apparent interest, which I do like, but because I pride myself on being good company.

I see a familiar pair of faces sitting on a ledge outside the bar. Both the guy and girl appear flustered. For a moment I can’t place where I’ve seen them before.

Are you two alright? I ask.

Not really, we just got kicked out, says the guy. He’s got a wide stain across the crotch of his blue jeans like he’s pissed himself.

Why?

My crazy ex through a pint over me, he says, gesturing with disgusts towards the stain.

"But why did you get kicked out then?"

Don’t know, he replies, sullenly.

You need any help?

No, we’re fine but thanks for asking.

I’m sensing that these two need some time to themselves, so I decide to take my leave and walk home. I briefly consider and speculate what had happened to them, but quickly forget about it and head homeward.

They clearly need some time to themselves, so I take my leave and walk home. It’s a brief ten-minute walk across campus and then I’m up in my fifth-floor flat. I flick on the light and give it a quick scan, making sure everything is neat and in its proper place. Then I examine myself in the dresser mirror, checking for imperfections in my grooming and my clothes.

I’m a twenty-four-year-old full-time laboratory assistant and live a very modest lifestyle. If my friends were to choose a single word to describe me, it would be... organised.

I believe in taking care of myself and looking presentable at all times. My diet is strict: high-protein and high calorie to (over) compensate for my naturally skinny frame. My weightlifting programme is equally strict. I weigh sixty kilograms, light for a male, but I can deadlift double that. I drink about two pints of full-fat milk a day, to make sure I have a generous daily intake of calcium.

I wear only dress shirts and black office shoes outdoors. These demonstrate an air of respectability and decorum; My two flatmates haven’t yet seen me improperly dressed, smart casual even for the brief moments between my bedroom and the bathroom. That bedroom is tidier than average, and every drawer is arranged per genre of garment.

Yes, genre.

My shoes are polished weekly to preserve their lustre and to remove unsightly build-ups of dirt and grime. My shirts are ironed before use and, in cold weather, I contrast them with an appropriately coloured pullover (black pullovers for maroon and patterned shirts, grey pullovers for white shirts).

My daily routine is the most rigid of any person I know. A man’s habits express his innermost character after all.

I arrive and leave work at the same time every day. I drink tea at 7 am, 11 am and 4 pm, not one minute later or earlier (apart from Fridays when I occasionally take tea at 3:30 pm). Gym is Mondays, Fridays and Sundays at 8:40 pm and I aim to be home by 10:30 pm. Post-gym I eat one banana and sugary treat, take a shower and then lights-off at 11:30 pm precisely.

Precisely.

Monday is jazz night. Tuesday is the pub quiz with friends who are studying for Master’s Degrees and PhDs at the University of Edinburgh. I take the day off on Wednesday and go to bed early. Thursdays is more gym. On Fridays, I attend an International Social meetup at a local bar.

When the weekend comes I struggle, as there are too few activities from which to create a strict routine. My mind craving order, I try instead to divide the day into blocks of an hour and then assign a task to each: translation, learning a musical instrument, general administrative activities, or simply cleaning up around the house.

The keys to success are order, diligence and discipline.

My essays are always submitted before the deadline. Despite not being a morning person, since secondary school, I forced myself to wake up before 9 am and exercised on a regular basis. I’ve never been in debt. My weekly spending is frugal to the extreme, often forgoing coffees, snacks, desserts and eating out; I never holiday abroad and my entertainment is downloaded free from the internet. I’ve been wearing the same clothes for years. Regularly washed, of course! I’m frugal, not slovenly.

My monthly mobile phone costs ten pounds, which is likely more than the value of the phone itself.

Self-restraint, austerity and moderation are qualities of which I am most proud. I often look down upon others who fail to keep to such standards. To me, they are slaves to their impulses: rash decisions, buying superfluous items, wasting time, effort and money on worthless paraphernalia just for the sake of wasting time, effort and money.

I’m not as conceited as that may make me sound. We each have our quirks and our code of values.

I hope to progress in the field of biotechnology and become a successful businessman, trading technology, innovations and products worldwide. My performance so far has been strong my conscientious work ethic is often praised by management. This makes me feel pride: self-improvement has been my life goal for a few years now and it has really worked for me. So much so that I sometimes wonder how people can just loaf around doing nothing, letting their belt size grow, wearing loose-fitting cheap clothes and wasting their lives.

They need a structured, balanced lifestyle. I would be nothing without this.

I have an obligation to myself, to become a better man.

My name is Oswald Kuragin, my friends call me Ozz, and I am moving up in the world, slowly but surely.

II

Life in Edinburgh in the year 2016 is a breeze: a frosty, windy, wintry, middle-class haven. Large, tastefully soot-stained apartments and sizeable detached houses loom over each street along with artisan coffee houses, second-hand bookshops and quirky, bohemian dwellings. The sound of bagpipes echo throughout the city and provide a background harmony to the bustling of Asian tourists, the chit-chat of students and the chilled-out banter of the locals.

Fights are uncommon and I suspect the Edinburgh police service has a very easy job. They are occasionally called to the odd tussle between Hearts and Hibernian football fans or a scramble outside a nightclub, but apart from that, the patrol of the average police officer in this town must be mostly uneventful and peaceful.

The centre of Edinburgh is mostly populated by young students, scurrying down Princes Street, popping into department shops and clothes shops, spending money that has not been hard earned. The young are modish, liberal, metropolitan and take most of their influence from a combination of the hippie movements of the 1960s, combined with the MTV, smartphone, and North-American hip-hop trends of the 2000s and 2010s. They can be heard in the pubs and clubs of Old Town and Cowgate in the evenings, bleating out the newest R&B hit from the depths of their lungs, produced and performed by the latest and most fashionable African-American sensation. During the daytime, they litter the coffee houses: white hipsters with dreadlocks and ginger beards sip on organic lattes with skimmed milk whilst strumming on second-hand acoustic guitars, crooning about the injustices done to the poor and the needy.

Tonight, I’ll be going to an International meetup: a gathering organised on the internet which gives International students and professionals the opportunity to meet with the locals every week at a nice bar. I go there not particularly to make friends, but rather to practice my social skills: practice how to start conversations, make people laugh and flirt with girls. I do not see these meetups as a time to relax, but as a time to train, to self-improve and to better yourself; they are basically an extension of work or the gym. I arrive home and immediately start preparing for the night out, ironing a black shirt and matching it with a pair of black-suited trousers, I toy with the idea of going in a full tuxedo and a pocket square but decide against it as it would be too formal. A grey Topman blazer will do. I look in the mirror… incredible.

Before attending the meetup, I watch a music video of Roxy Music singing Avalon. In this video, Bryan Ferry wears a white tuxedo whilst swaying tastefully with the music and crooning a soft, yet poignant melody over an elegant chord pattern. I wish to emulate the style, the artfulness of this man when I go out. I want people to turn their heads the minute I walk in the room and recognise that I have class, I want the men to envy my suaveness and the women to gasp and flick their hair in astonishment. I want to feel like a Rockstar wherever I go. The track fades out and I look in the mirror one last time before going out.

The sky is dark and the wind is cold but I don’t want to put a jumper or a winter coat on as that would ruin my look completely. Fortunately, Espace is located just down the road. I enter the bar and look inside, the décor is immaculate: leather sofas and couches are arranged around tables decorated with tall candles and glass surfaces, polished spotless. The ceiling is high and the walls have large ovular mirrors on them to reflect the dim lighting onto the rows of chatting people. The bar itself is stacked with foreign, expensive gins and whiskey imported from the Americas and Japan. The waiters and waitresses are all dressed in ties and waistcoats, bearing the Espace logo and their nametag on the front and all have the same, professional smile on their faces.

I look around at the people who have shown up for the meetup today and can see the regulars, those lonely Spanish and Italian folk who have not had the chance to develop a large friend circle here and who flock to anyone who will just listen to them for the best part of two minutes and the hopeless romantics scowling in the corner, hoping that a pretty girl will just come and approach them and sleep with them that night. I see the aging career ladies in their late thirties, looking desperately for the male attention which they had become so accustomed to in their teens and twenties and of course the hapless Indians and Pakistanis who lack any sort of social worth whatsoever, foraging for scraps of validation which they have only ever had from their parents and relatives. It’s a sorry bunch, none of them know how to dress well but it is something: a place where I can practice my social skills without having to suffer the consequences of my actions.

Firstly, I go over and talk to Priscilla, a lady who must be about fifty and who works in IT consultancy. She’s a very bubbly character and we always chat for maybe one or two minutes at every one of these meetups, but I don’t think she ever remembers my name.

Hey, nice suit, you look fantastic, Priscilla says with a beaming smile.

Thanks very much, you look nice yourself, I reply, failing to match her level of enthusiasm.

Wow, you definitely have to pull in that suit, I’ll be shocked if you don’t.

She’s exactly right, it would be shocking if I fail to sleep with anyone dressed like this, but I know for a fact that I won’t, nothing like that ever happens at these meetups and anyway, that isn’t my aim tonight, I’m here to practice my social skills.

How have you been anyway? I ask, trying to sound as polite as possible.

Not too well, work is boring, life is boring, this is the only thing I look forward to in the week.

Me too.

Oh hi! Priscilla says to this Asian girl, turning away from me and ignoring my response, before striking up a conversation with her. I’ve seen this Asian girl before but I’ve forgotten her name, I think it’s Tao or something.

Unwilling to stand there and listen to what Tao has to say, I go away and look for other people to talk to. Even by the standards of this meetup, it’s empty tonight. Whilst walking around, I try to look as graceful as possible, so that my value can remain higher than everyone else’s, I check to see if people are watching and admiring me, they don’t seem to be today, perhaps my shoes aren’t polished enough, I don’t know what it is today, something just doesn’t feel right, even though I am the best dressed here easily.

Pick a card!

I turn around and see a grinning, Pakistani guy in a tweed suit handing me a deck of cards, trying to get me to pick one. I’m immediately suspicious of him, he’s shorter than me and his suit looks stupid, I also don’t like the grin on his face, so I just stare at him, saying nothing, hoping that he goes away. He doesn’t, and just stays there.

Why? I ask, furrowing my brows and folding my arms.

I have a trick!

I’m alright, thanks.

Pick a card!

No.

Fine…

He walks off and goes over to three girls sitting down on a couch, urging them to pick a card. They will surely see through that clownish nonsense.

I’m starting to get uneasy now and think about calling it a night and going home.

Why didn’t you pick a card?

I look around to see a man in his early thirties leaning casually on the backrest of a sofa behind me, dressed in a flat cap and a blue shirt with brown shoes and a silver necklace. He seems confident yet laid back and he certainly stands out as being far more relaxed and cool than everyone else at the meetup.

I didn’t feel like it, I don’t want to take part in his little game, I scoff arrogantly.

That’s not very good social skills.

Taken slightly aback, I walk over to him.

You should be having fun in these places, you look very stiff and you’re not smiling enough.

I’m shocked that this person would have the nerve to say such a thing to someone whom he’s never met before, especially someone who’s dressed as well as me and who’s been to this meetup several times before, but I don’t get cross because I judge that he probably knows what he’s talking about in terms of social dynamics and may have some useful advice that I can take to improve my social standing. He has that air of experience and understanding, I get the impression by the way he’s dressed and his casual demeanour that he is successful in whatever it is that he does.

How would you know? I ask, inquisitively.

I’m a life coach and I run a dating school for men, I help men improve their lives through self-improvement and confidence.

The guy has a soft, Italian sounding voice which suits his jet black, shoulder length hair and prominent, Southern European features. Despite having a strong accent, he speaks clearly and slowly, so I can understand him.

A Pick-up artist basically…

No, I am not like them, they are very aggressive and they are often not good in social interactions.

But you still teach men how to get with women, right?

Yes, but I focus more on the communication side of it. Most men have such a simplistic view of relationships, they focus only on the end, they fail to realise how important the entire interaction is, they are not emotionally intelligent enough.

I suppose so, that does make sense.

I have taught men who have not have sex in several years to get women back into their lives through building up their social circle, improving their communication, their fashion and their attitude to life.

I sense that this is starting to sound like an advert and he’s seen me as a potential punter, he’s probably going to name a price soon.

So, if you were to approach a girl, let’s say that one over there, I point out a random girl standing at the bar, what would you do?

Oh, I don’t do that myself?

What do you mean? I ask, confused.

I am a homosexual.

Then… how on earth do you know how to approach women if you’re gay?

I understand the female perspective, I understand what women want in men, so I am perfect to teach straight men what to do.

I don’t believe for a second that a homosexual is qualified in any way whatsoever to be talking about trying to pick-up women. The life of a 21st century, metropolitan homosexual has got to be the easiest and the most pleasurable imaginable: they don’t have to put any effort in whatsoever into getting laid, all they have to do is post their picture on Grindr and they instantaneously get messages from thirsty, hypersexualised men in their twenties and thirties looking for their next sexual partner in a line of hundreds, maybe even thousands. I would even go so far as to say that homosexual males have it even easier than women. Despite thinking this, I remain polite and keep my views to myself.

How many clients have you had recently?

One.

Is that all?

Yes, he was a great success, he had terrible anxiety problems and this weekend he is hosting a party, I have seen the guest-list and a lot of hot women are going!

This anecdote fails to convince me of this guy’s credibility.

How long did you teach him for?

I gave him about six weeks of advice and life-coaching, that’s all he needed, he was a very quick learner.

How much do you charge for your services, I just had to ask by this point, I am far too curious.

I only charge forty pounds.

What, per session?

No, one-off, for everything?

What, for six weeks of life-coaching?

Yes.

Do you have another job?

Yes, I work temporary jobs on the side, but life-coaching and self-improvement is my passion.

I do not know what to think of this guy, I wonder why he’s only charging forty pounds to do this for such a large proportion of his time. He seems to know what he’s talking about and appears far better dressed than the average looking bloke, but it seems to be very wishy-washy: terms like self-improvement and communication are far too vague for me, I want concrete bits of advice, things I can put into practice, changes I can make right here and right now to improve my social standing and I simply can’t see this guy being able to deliver the goods, even if it does only cost forty quid for a seemingly limitless amount of advice and coaching. Before I can excuse myself from the conversation, he offers me his business card.

Call me sometime if you are interested, you seem to be an intelligent person but I do believe there are parts of your communication you could improve, I could definitely see you benefitting from some sessions with me.

What’s your name by the way?

I am Pablo, and you?

Ozz.

Nice to meet you Ozz, Pablo says before offering me a firm and confident handshake.

I am hosting a meetup tomorrow, all my friends are going to be there, we are going to talk about life and I shall give some free advice,

Cool, I’ll think about it, I say, taking the business card.

I leave Espace and go home; that’s enough social interaction for one evening. I need to be alone now. As I’m walking back to my flat, I look down at the card to see a cartoon of a suave looking guy in a tie and suit, holding a book with the caption Men’s school, optimize your life and your dating over the top of it. I put it away in my pocket and forget about it before going back up to my room to sleep.

Spring doesn’t exist in Scotland. The temperature drops drastically around late August and remains at a constant low level until May the following year. When the sun does manage to show its face through the thick, murky, impenetrable wall of grey cloud, it is never strong enough to heat up anything on the ground below. March and April are essentially extensions of the drab months of January and February. It’s Saturday again and as usual, I have absolutely nothing to do today. Remembering Pablo from yesterday’s interaction, I take out the business card he gave me and start pondering whether I should go to the meetup he suggested. I couldn’t imagine that there would be anything of worth I could possibly gain from it, but the boredom is wasting me away, I have to do something to alleviate the hours of nothingness. I’ve made it to three in the afternoon but it’s going to be far too challenging to kill the rest of the afternoon and the evening all by myself, I have no choice but to go. I grab my jacket and get the bus down to the Wetherspoons pub where the meetup is going to take place. As always, I want to make a good impression to whatever people I am going to meet there so I dress up nicely, with my shoes polished and my hair done up properly. There is always a slim possibility that Pablo might know what he’s talking about and that I will be talking to some attractive women later on in the day, so I should dress up for the occasion.

The Wetherspoons is located in a large entertainment complex called the Omnicentre, a large, ugly looking building with a ten-screen cinema on the top floor and chain restaurants on the bottom floor, littered with bored, loud working-class families wondering about with squealing children, screeching at each other whilst pushing pushchairs filled with even more offspring. Teenagers in all-grey tracksuits carrying Slush Puppies loaf about the place whilst tired, haggard old couples sit around with their inexpensive fast food meals, lazily reading the newspaper as if they were sitting in a retirement home, waiting for the nurse to wipe off the tomato sauce from their chin with a damp napkin. Uninspired and lacking in motivation, I slovenly walk around the place, seeing if I can spot Pablo through the crowds of families and old people and finally catch sight of him sitting at a table outside the Wetherspoons, surrounded by four or five other men. I walk over to them.

Hey Ozz, you made it, it’s nice to see you, Pablo says in a casual, friendly manner.

Yeah, how’s it going? I ask.

I’m fine, take a seat and let me introduce you to everyone here, he says in a welcoming and sympathetic way as if he were chairing an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

This is Elliot, he was my first client and I gave him six weeks of coaching, we are now really good friends.

I shake his hand; his handshake is pretty flimsy but he looks nice enough.

Over here we have Duncan who plays rugby here and his friend Shaun who’s come from South Africa to work here.

I glance over at them and they appear to be the most masculine of the people sitting at the table, unfortunately, they don’t look very friendly and don’t attempt to shake my hand or to even smile at me as I greet them.

Finally, this is Wojak sitting next to me, he’s been coming to these meetups for a while now as well.

Wojak has the face of a thousand sorrows etched into his skull. He’s bald and old-looking even though he can’t be much more than thirty and his expression looks as if he’s permanently crying. I am not sure what horrors and tragedies he has seen, but if sadness were to ever be synthesized into human form, it would look like Wojak.

Everyone, this is Ozz, I met him at the international meetup yesterday, Pablo announces to the group. Everyone looks over, vaguely interested and they all collectively mutter a brief hello.

The vibe of the conversation is not a happy one: everyone just seems to be staring awkwardly at each other. Wojak looks as if he is about to burst into tears and Duncan and Shaun only seemed