A Glitch In The Matrix

Whenever I experience déjà vu, I just assume that there's been a glitch in the Matrix.

This happens mostly when I'm hammered. I'll look at John or Nick with squinty, bloodshot eyes and ask, "We've been here before, haven't we?"

When I turned 20, I lost my ability to create memories on nights of heavy drinking – God's way of protecting me from myself. I'll blackout and wake up on the couch in my underwear, socks, and whatever shirt I wore out the night before. Most times, I'll be within grabbing distance of fast food remnants or a styrofoam box smeared with sauces and crumbs. On more than one occasion, I've actually had to peel a Taco Bell wrapper from my face. And then I'll go out again that night and wonder allowed why this feels so familiar. I’ll gaze into my cup of watered-down Absolut and focus on the mangled lime wedge that’s bobbing for air. I’ve had same drink in my hand before. These people are saying the same things over and over. There must a glitch in the Matrix.

This also happens when I’m dating someone. I’ll find myself propped up in a booth at P.F. Chang’s across from a guy I’m vaguely screwing and out of nowhere, a voice will whisper, “You’ve done this already.” And then I’ll recognize it: the guy, the stories, the haircut, the thing’s we’re avoiding, the sex, the looming break-up, the mounting pile of mistakes and red flags next to the lettuce wraps. This table for two feels habitual – almost ritualistic. He might not be a clone, but this experience has been replicated 100 times. And now we’re living in it, all thanks to our robot overlords changing a single aspect of our artificial reality. Bitches.

Sometimes I crave the feeling, a form of self-inflicted mind-fuckery. I’ll brave the deep waters of my Facebook pictures by scrolling backwards through 2010, then 2009, then 2008. I feel him coming as I edge closer and closer. Down in my stomach, something churns. I scroll. I close one eye and then I open it. My exboyfriend is right in front of me. It's a picture of the two of us together. And then the feeling bursts in my stomach, up my spine, and into the backs of my eyes. I've been here before; skinnier, and happier, and full of shit. And he looks beautiful; the best he's ever looked. It's not a comfortable place to be, but it registers. But it wouldn't be productive for me to stay here. It's been nice visiting, but I really must be going. Romanticizing a memory is the same as lying to yourself. And I lie
enough to myself these days. So goodbye. Miss you, kiss you.

Bye, nigga. It's been real. Well not entirely.

I wonder, could this be home – the place where I return for a feeling I can't explain? Or am I just monetarily suspended in my headspace – the victim of a mechanical animal poking around in my brain. Or maybe I just have a problem with drinking, men, and emotional cutting.

It's just more fun to blame the robots.