Brekin. Just saying the name feels like a waste of breath, like you’ve somehow polluted the air around you by giving it the dignity of sound. Brekin. He’s the kind of guy who somehow turns everything, everything, into the most exhausting experience possible. Want a simple coffee order? He’s the one holding up the line because he’s asking if there’s a "locally-sourced, single-origin, organic option." It doesn’t matter that it’s a gas station convenience store with a coffee pot that’s probably older than he is—no, he’s going to stand there and sigh, loudly, as if this world has failed him personally by not offering the most artisanal of bean selections.

And let’s talk about the sighing for a moment. Brekin sighs more than anyone I’ve ever met. He sighs when he sits down, sighs when he stands up, sighs when he breathes. Every little inconvenience, every small, mundane task, is met with this long, exasperated exhale that sounds like he’s been wronged by the universe in some deeply philosophical way. I honestly believe he thinks he’s some tragic hero of his own life story, crushed by fate. But the truth is, he just needs to learn how to open a can of soup without complaining that it isn’t “ethically packaged.”
Don’t even get me started on his wardrobe. Brekin has managed to cultivate a collection of sweaters that look like they were fished out of the bottom of a bargain bin in some thrift store that hasn’t seen a cleaning crew in years. It’s all mismatched patterns, clashing colors, and some strange fascination with corduroy—corduroy, like it’s 1973 again, and he’s a misunderstood artist with “big ideas.” He’s not. He’s just a guy who somehow, magically, still believes that wearing ironic T-shirts and combat boots make him edgy.

And the opinions. Oh, the opinions. Brekin will sit you down and tell you, unprompted, about why his particular brand of tea is vastly superior to yours, or why he thinks mainstream music has “lost its soul” (which, by the way, he’s convinced only existed in the most obscure of indie bands that conveniently no one else knows about). He’ll drone on for hours if you let him, waxing poetic about obscure philosophy he probably skimmed from some online forum just so he could bring it up in conversation and seem intellectual.

It’s like he’s allergic to joy, or maybe just to letting anyone else around him experience any. The few times I’ve seen him actually smile, it’s been one of those smug, I’m-better-than-you smiles. He always has to have the last word, even if that last word is just a drawn-out “Hmm…” while tilting his head and giving you this infuriatingly patronizing look that makes you want to scream. He’s like a human embodiment of everything pretentious and irritating in this world, wrapped up in his ridiculous sweater and corduroy armor.
Brekin. The kind of guy who’d probably spend an hour explaining to you why he prefers “vintage” over “antique,” why his taste in books is superior, or why he’s too “sensitive to animal suffering” to eat meat but still wears leather shoes because “they’re, like, vintage.” And somehow, despite the mountain of irritation he builds up around himself, he remains blissfully oblivious to the fact that he’s more insufferable than the world could ever be to him.