Dear sad boys/girls/non-gender binary conforming friends,
Sometimes you just get rad sad. Maybe you were happy thinking about the Boston Olympics, but then remembered this is the city where you can fall into a snow bank and then eventually be birthed from it a few days later. I’ve personally entered sad boy territory recently (I’m not wearing a bucket hat yet though). For example, two nights ago my friend and I had to chalk up $60 for an Uber back to campus since the MBTA underground was down. I offered to pay half the fare through my tears. The driver refused. Nevertheless, I have formed a map to the arc of “sadboi” status, understanding the process may perhaps ameliorate the phenomena. Feel free to retreat into a dimly lit corner and drink some expired PBR to the tune of Frank Ocean if this doesn’t work.
Like death, being a sad boy comes with its mourning period, in which you must grieve all emotional stability that you were once capable of maintaining. Wear only black. Black pants. Black shoes. Black decorative shall. Black fanny pack. Even the slightest affinity towards grayscale will completely ruin this state. The goal is to emulate Orin from “Parks and Recreation” (2009 – present). On top of your noir stylings, express the occasional “dark” anecdote to round out the required aura. Love is dead, nobody likes me, the modern condition furtively consumes souls through our own subconscious isolation, etc. This step is designed to further concern but also perpetuate a state of complete emotional and physical isolation. Sad status requires alone time to process and aggressively ruminate against archaic societal constructs. Fervently despising marriage and single-family households is a common side effect.
The next step manifests itself in numbing through whatever platform necessary. Black garments can finally be shed with more stereotypical choices. The bucket hat can finally be utilized, along with cargo shorts, an ironic Hawaiian t-shirt and flower crown two-piece, complete with pastel espadrille sock combos. Music will consist strictly of Yung Lean heavy playlists crossed with the occasional Peter Paul and Mary selection. Realistically, any down-tempo ’70s ballad will do the trick if combined with a bit of Spooky Black. The once anger-ridden tempest of emotional turbulence has calmed to a more steady drizzle, with angsty interjections transitioning into more nuanced, profound yet morbid observations. Examples could be comparisons between one’s love life and the stagnant layer of pond scum during autumnal overturn. Another is the fact that the free radicals within our bodies are every second killing thousands of autosomal cells, a process responsible for aging and eventual death. But again, the key is suppression. Share that sad tale, take a swig of some melancholic mai tai and turn up your friend’s crappy mix tape to the maximum.
Coming full circle, many saddies are never able to reach this stage, but instead aimlessly wander through a vacuous continuum of sensory suppression and despair. But, the lucky individuals who can retreat from the vicious conundrum are able to enter a nirvana in the form of complete catharsis. Every pent-up mental sensation should be released, aided with massive amounts of carb ingestion. Eat enough penne (avoid Barilla if you are socially aware of their oppressive acts!) necessary for running a marathon, but then recline upon a sofa as your soul attempts to self-repair from its state of disrepair. Choose a “Happy Times” playlist on Spotify no matter how terrible it is, and have faith in your shedding of sad boy existence.
Triple-ply tissues in hand,