I hate anonymity, but I’ve been participating in it recently, occasionally giving the boys that I write about pseudonyms so that their ex’s or girl that they flirted with one night over a pitcher of beer and a soccer game, don’t get offended. I guess me giving them bullshit names, is my way of not cock-blocking my friends. But come on girls, stop getting pissed at guys just because they have a story that doesn’t include you. It’s embarrassing. So because I’m annoyed right now that I have to practice restraint, I am going to give my friend the pseudonym “fat face” for this entry. Generally, I would call him “My Love,” a name we’ve been calling each other since 2003, but he pissed me off, so he’s not getting the nice nickname today.
I’d like to note that Fat Face is not at all fat. He’s actually quite good-looking and I like picking out ties for him because he has a good fashion sense and when he’s feeling especially sweet, he’ll even let me pick out his outfit.
Him and I always have a lot of fun together. Whether I’m making him play Monopoly with me, or we’re hoping fences and jumping into high school pools at 3:00 in the morning, we always have a great time. We have been hanging out a lot because at the moment we’re both single(ish), we live in the same city, have a self-destructive personal life and put up with each other’s obnoxious tendencies, so I’d say he’s my partner in crime. He’s also one of my best friends.
When we were teenagers, we had a whole group of friends who would rally together and participate in these slightly illegal, yet harmless activities such as spray painting city light bulbs, climbing on roofs and planning underground Beta fish fight clubs. The rest of the “crew” have gone on to have fully functioning adult lives, and Fat Face and I are the two who still blow bubbles and giggle at the word vagina. I’m sure our inability to settle down is due to our deep inner discontent, but this is something we choose to ignore for the most part when we’re together. We just have too much damn fun to bother with gross discussions of the true reasons of why we push everyone away.
This screenshot perfectly sums up our friendship:
That is a very brief explanation of our most recent history, maybe I’ll get into our more advanced history some other time, but for now, we’re talking about what he did to piss me off, and the sinful events that took place after. While on the phone with him the other night, he said something that was probably true, but I was not trying to hear it right then. It was something along the lines of me always getting myself into ridiculous situations because I “welcome” them. He went on to just dig himself into a hole, including statements such as, “I’m entertained by them though!” I basically took it to mean that he doesn’t take me, or my life seriously.
“Fat Face. Fat Face. Stop talking. I’m hanging up on you.”
“No! No! Don’t hang up. Please!”
“Yes, I’m going. You’re making me mad.”
“You know that’s not what I meant!”
Of course, we were kind of laughing, even as we were yelling at each other. He knows me well enough to know that I just needed a night to settle down and that by tomorrow I’d only be 60% mad at him, so he let me go. I was planning on a low-key night, it was 10:00pm and I was sitting at a Starbucks instead of a bar. After Fat Face ambushed me with that however, I felt I deserved a cocktail to unwind from the mental uneasiness he so graciously offered. I brought my book to a nearby bar, sat in my spot and ordered a Beefeater martini with two olives.
20 pages and 20 ounces of gin later, and I was humoring this guy next to me, pretending to listen as he discussed something relating to baseball I think, and something relating to his dog, which I definitely didn’t give a shit about. This went on for about a half hour, but once he busted out the iPhone to show me pictures of his damn dog that I didn’t ask about, I gave myself a Caitlin pep talk. It went something like this:
Why the fuck are you talking to this guy? You know you’re just humoring him because you’re bored and pissed at Fat Face.
After my pep talk, I decided to actually look at the guy whose time I was currently wasting. He was a child. This kid must have been freshly 21. Okay, now things were getting interesting, I thought. Fat Face is always getting himself involved with little girls who still take bathroom mirror selfies, and the kid I was talking to was their male counterpart.
Once I discovered the irony, I was eating it up. I began to actually make eye-contact, asked him what his dumb dog’s name is and even went as far as to inquire about what it feels like to have been born in the ’90s. In hindsight, it was obviously my way of lashing out at Fat Face’s statement. You think I “welcome” my ridiculous situations? Well watch this!
Just call me Ms. Maturity.
The child and I got up to go outside, and he was carrying a fucking duffel bag. Immediately after that hilarious discovery, which I of course called him out on, I found out that he doesn’t have a car. Even better. Here I am, a 27-year-old professional, (sort of) about to make a bad decision with a kid who carries around a duffel bag, has no car and wears pink button up shirts. “So does that mean I’m taking you home?” I asked.
“Yes.” Oh God.
To be continued…