Bash List

I still wonder if Brian left the notebook out purposefully. It would seem so. I guess leaving it out would be the perfect way to get someone annoying to leave you alone. I remember several occasions in which I have passive-aggressively insulted someone with the intention of burning the bridge.

Manny was a problem to get rid of. He was a scavenger, as defined by Dave Chapelle. He never had his own weed, but whenever you had some, here he came. He wasn’t the first scavenger I had ever known. Truthfully, I had a few friends who could be defined as such. What made Manny so irritating was his complete inability to handle his chemicals and the resulting damage to my property. I had already given him two of my towels, filled with puddles of his own vomit. I wasn’t feeling much like investing in any more, nor did I have any oxy clean for the carpets.

The day finally came that my idiot boyfriend was not there to welcome him. When he knocked, I looked through the peephole cleared my throat loudly. I turned up the stereo, made a fake phone call and even hit the bong hard enough to send myself in to a coughing fit. I peeked outside a couple times to make sure that he had heard me. He knocked several more times before finally turning to leave. I waited until he was at the bottom of the stairs before I opened the door. When he turned to look at me, I said:

“I didn’t open the door for a reason.” I waved and shut the door.

That clicked. We never saw Manny again. Good riddance.

Later in my adventures, I was on a date that was apparently mistaken as a platonic get together by another would-be-suitor in the bar. I am not sure what compelled me to lead him on a little. Maybe it was the brass ones he showed when he visibly admired my ass leaning over the pool table. --Admire, but please try to keep from drooling— No, maybe it was the later brazen “accidental” stroke of my left one that forced me to don a fake smile and make this guy think he had a chance. I was almost too happy to give him the phone number I had waiting. I wrote it on a cocktail napkin.

---I still have to thank the people who created the recording—

The rejection hotline informed this game-lacking ass clown that not only did I not want him to have my real number, but that the thought of dating such an individual is as appealing as “playing leapfrog with Unicorns.” Pure. Genius.

Rewind to the awkwardness of 14 and I am staring at a notebook page that has been divided in to 2 columns. One column is marked “People We Love.” Below it is a list of names that includes several of my friends, and several of my unfriends. The second column is labeled “People We Bash.” My name is second on the list; the first is my mother.

I don’t remember reacting. Brian returned to the room to find me standing by the desk in front of the open notebook. He said nothing, not even looking at the notebook. I had just arrived, but I told him I had to leave. I was crushed by my crush, but his plan was effective. I never attempted to speak to him or his friends again.

There is no moral here. How could there be?

The End.