*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: Hello?
Her: What?!
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?
Her: Why?
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.
Her: Wow
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…
Me: Hello?
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.
Her: ?
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.
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