*This conversation takes place entirely over text.*
Saturday, Dec. 8, 1:14 am
Me: Hey girl. What’re you up to?
Her: Josh, it’s 1 in the morning.
Me: Yep. Batman is busy patrolling the streets right now. Ever vigilant.
Her: Go to bed. I’m sure your drunk.
Me: Nonsense. Sober like a fox. Haven’t misspelled a word yut. I have powdered alcohol. This stuff is great!
Her: Goodnight! (Emoticon that I will not bother to reproduce here because emoticons are, of course, tools of Socialist Satan.)
Me: Wait. Seriously, I have to tell you something.
Ten minutes go by…
Me: Ninjas can be real assholes sometimes.
Her: Josh. It’s the middle of the night and your being stupid. Go to bed!
Me: For cereal though, I just wanted to talk to you. I’m so bored right now.
Her: Because it’s the middle of the night and sain people are asleep.
Me: “Sain”? Now who’s drunk? Can I come over?
Me: I have a loose tooth I want to show you. Why doyou think?
Her: idk. Its really late and I’m tired.
Me: You know who else was tired? Debbie. But that didn’t stop her from doing all of Dallas.
Me: I know, right?
Her: UR so romantic
Me: And a consistently good speller. Don’t forget that. Anyway what’s the deal?
Seven minutes pass…
Me: Come on! I’ll bring some wine. Actually, the rest of this bottle of rum. We’ll do shots. Shots of booze with powdered alcohol mixed in. We can watch a movie.
Her: I’m not doing shots and I’m not watching one of your bad movies. I’m not in the mood for Buckaroo Bonsai versus Hitler or whatever.
Me: Your words wound my tender heart. Buckaroo Bonsai fights the World Crime League, not Hitler. Everybody knows that. So what are you wearing?
Her: Pajamas. Sweatpants. Nothing sexy. Sorry (Frowny face emoticon. Seriously people, have we sunk to this level of communication? I should write a blog about it when the booze wears off.)
Me: I’m wearing a sock. I think.
Her: Just a sock?
Me: Not sure. I haven’t ventured a look down in awhile. If it is just a sock, that’d explain the pizza guy’s face earlier.
A minute later…
Just checked. I’m also wearing a shirt that advocates hitting pregnant women. Pants are AWOL. Damn I’m smooth.
Her: If you’re going to come over, just hurry up. We’re not in our 20’s anymore. Booty calls gotta stop.
Me: Ain’t gotta tell me twice! On my way.
After 22 minutes…
Her: Where are you? You close?
Me: Funny story and I’ll tell you all about it, but you’ll have to bail me out first. Unless Mr. Brooks can get here.
Her: WTF?! Your in jail?
Me: *You’re. Never an excuse for bad grammar. I’m not in jail yet. But things are kinda messy around here and the cops are on their way. I just want to get a leg up on things before they take my phone.
Her: What happened?
Me: I have strong objections to the rules about street parking in whatever neighborhood I’m currently in. People shouldn’t park in the street at all. They should park in driveways. Or, as I’m currently doing, in garages. Well, I’m not in a garage as much as I’d say it’s somebody’s living room. But you know what I mean.
Me: I’m sure the family who lives here will have a nice laugh about it in the morning. Right now they’re screaming at me and cussing a lot. Here come the police. I’ll talk to you later. Keep your bed warm and your legs closed until I get there.
Her: Your an idiot.
Me: The irony in that statement will keep me going through the long, cold, anally-penetrating nights in prison.