Somehow, in some way, they must be fundamentally mistaken.
I’m sure of it, because there’s no way that I’m the one in the wrong.
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In commencing this record, I suppose the first things I ought to share are the details of where I was born, and of what an adorable tot I was, and of how my first brush with love transpired in high school, and all that David Copperfield kind of rubbish. But I suspect that dwelling on such matters too long would test my dear readers’ patience. Thus, I will endeavor to keep this brief.
I was born in Nara, lived in Osaka for a while, returned to Nara in adolescence, and moved to Kyoto for college. As of this winter, I’ve resided in Kyoto for roughly five years. At the outset of my fourth year in college, I was enrolled in a research lab in the Faculty of Agriculture, merrily on my way toward graduation until unforeseen circumstances conspired to put me on an extended leave of absence. Suffice it to say, I was grappling with a great load on my mind. I can’t remember any of the specifics now, I don’t want to remember them, and I have no need to remember. In fact, I intend to conclude the present record without touching on that period of my life at all, as nothing on this earth is more tedious than having to read about a young man’s sufferings.
Presently, I am a fifth-year undergraduate student on hiatus—a particularly unsavory character, even among college students.
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My first two years in college could be summed up in a single word: barren. I mean that in every sense, but my luck with women was particularly dismal.
A friend from high school, who’d gone on to study at a different university in Kyoto, once lamented to me, “It’s impossible to find a date in this city when you Kyoto University kids keep snapping up all the college girls.”
I was stunned. No matter how I stretched and strained my eyes, I could not for the life of me find evidence of these purported plunderers of women among my peers. If anything, every male in sight—myself included—seemed intent on keeping his chastity carefully intact until the end of time. Whether anyone wished to steal it was beside the point.
So where, I had to wonder, were these fabled Kyoto University beasts, prowling the city’s other campuses with torches in hand, swinging the flames to and fro as they cried to every cowering coed, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” I, for one, had never made any such sightings. And thus I preferred to interpret this particular claim as nothing more than urban legend.
But I would be appalled to have you, dear readers, believe that I was beleaguered in any way by my utter lack of female companionship. Of all the inane emotions in the world, none are further divorced from my mind than self-loathing and guilt. Why, at one time, I even feared contact with women, for the havoc I believed romantic feelings would wreak on my capacity for clear thought. I was fully content with the impenetrable circle of homosociality I’d constructed around myself. The only individuals I interacted with were other men who, like me, found the female presence a wholly unnecessary burden in life—or who had themselves been deemed wholly unnecessary by the female population. Birds of a feather, as it were. Together, we relished in our strictly male environment, our minds free to gorge themselves on contemplation and the pursuit of any fancy that struck. We aspired to ever greater heights, our diligence nudging us upward day by day. Soon, we were so high atop our laurels we could no longer hope to get down. We couldn’t even stomach a peek over the edge. But we held our tongues, pressing onward, swept up in a mad, men-only folk dance that seemed never to end.
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Eventually, I had to acknowledge a growing concern that social rehabilitation might soon prove impossible. If I kept dancing the men-only jig any longer, I might truly find myself beyond the point of no return. I’d carry on, the rest of my life dictated by the feverish rhythm until I ascended, prophet of my own special sect of celibacy. It was the summer of my third year when the scent of danger grew unbearably oppressive, prompting me to finally break free.
In truth, it still pains me somewhat, recalling that ultimate betrayal of everything I once stood for. But if I must swallow my pride and confess, so be it. Three years into college, I acquired a girlfriend.
The individual in question was a new addition to a certain university sports club to which I belonged.
I was regarded rather harshly by the other members, all but bathed in the contempt of both upper- and underclassmen for being what they perceived as the club idler, a good-for-nothing. And I suppose, looking back, my actions constituted the ultimate abuse of privilege: I was leveraging my station as an established member of the club—along with every other means and device I could fathom—to ensnare her. A few of my friends privy to the situation objected, bitterly criticizing me as having deceived a tender, young first-year student.
Still, to be honest, I was happy.
I was also very nearly ready to spit on myself. For truly, what manner of craven fool glows with pride over merely having secured a girlfriend?
At any rate, the girl’s surname was Mizuo.
I imagine I’ll come to write more about her eventually. For now, simply know that to me she was and remains the only woman of consequence. It would therefore be impossible to tell my story without mentioning her part. But do not fret, dear readers. I assure you that this record you now hold will not devolve into some manner of repugnant, sappy romance—or any other drivel of that ilk. On that point, you need not worry.
To summarize, Mizuo was intellectual, attractive, outlandish, inconsistent, remarkably catlike, slightly too fond of sleep, and a thoroughly charming person. But regrettably, she had one fatal flaw.
She had made the grave mistake of rejecting me.
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I write this record while sitting dead center on a dilapidated four-and-a-half-tatami-mat floor. My intent is to illustrate my humdrum day-to-day. Some of you may protest, adamant that you have no interest in reading about my everyday happenings. Those readers would be wise to set this book down straightaway. They only need glance around to find countless other texts to occupy their time—texts far more accessible, far less taxing, and far more pleasant to read. No predilection can justify delving into this sweaty tome, overflowing with the malodorous musk of man. If you do choose to read through, know that upon completion you will undoubtedly find your own scent to have doubled in intensity. So please, stop now. Say not that I failed to warn you. If my experience is any measure, a bodily odor once magnified can never again be reined in.
However, those of you who do dare to continue may find my tale a most valuable experience. It may not be a pleasant one, mind, but the best medicine is always bitter.
Then again, bitterness alone does not guarantee a remedy. Poison, too, tastes harsh.