"I think she likes me. Doesn't she? I think she does. What do you think?"
"Stop being a wuss and man up."
Ha. Brian Brody just called me a wuss. The guy whose unfortunate initials were B.B - which inspired his creative high-school class mates to nickname him "BeeBee", "Baby", "B-cups" and "Boobjob" (which had more to do with his flabby man-breasts than his initials) - thinks I should man up. The irony. I started to formulate a witty retort, but I was overwhelmed by the vast array of names I could call him and ended up responding with an elegant, timeless "Shut up".
I'd just met my long-time friend/crush/almost-girlfriend/I-don't-know-what-to-call-her after a couple of months of chilly conversations of decreasing frequency, and even though I'd moved on (or I'd thought I did) a long time ago, every time I met her it was like there was all this tension and unresolved feelings left hanging in the air, and the fact that Brian kept doing the Gangnam style dance behind her back to force me to laugh didn't help. It had always been an unresolved story-line, a will they/won't they kind of dance that we did every few months, only for one of us to get in a relationship and start being distant, which was OK since an explosive break-up usually followed and the cycle started all over again. I wasn't even sure I liked her that much, but the thrill of the chase and the intimacy of the dance kept me hooked. That time, when we met, I could definitely feel something. Maybe I was having feelings for her again. Or maybe I shouldn't have had that last burrito. At any rate, I still couldn't shake off the feeling that maybe that time something might happen.
"I thought that went great, Ben!" Piped up the ever-happy Sarah. She was the only girl who willingly hung out with our band of inappropriate, that's-what-she-said-joke-abusing, online-game-playing geeks. Each of us had a separate life on his own, with other friends and girlfriends, but when we got together we always reverted to the fifteen-year-old teenagers that we were at heart. Four years at college hadn't helped with our immaturity. In fact, the older we got, the tighter we seemed to cling to our old ways, refusing to accept the responsibilities that came with adulthood.
"I say you move on, mate." Suggested Kirk, always Captain Obvious. "It's been years, and honestly, you could do much better, you're too good for her". Tut, tut, tut. Kirk... Sweet, lovable, idiotic Kirk. Again, always stating the obvious. Kirk was the relationship specialist in our pack. Even though he was five foot five, balding, and of square build, none of which (as I was told) was very appealing to females, he'd been in more relationships than all of us combined, Sarah included. Or as he liked to put it- or rather, boast at the top of his lungs to anyone who would listen- "I'd get more tail on a deserted island in the pacific ocean at 3 AM in a bomb shelter 50 feet underground than you'd all get at a fat cougar reunion with an open bar". Hmm, maybe next time I could make a joke about the tail he got on that island being of the variety usually found attached to squirrels. I made a mental note to snap that at him the next time he brought it up.
"Don't listen to him, Ben, go get her.. you'd be great together" Said Damon.
"Oh, what do you know? It's not like you've been with a girl in five years." Snapped Kirk.
That was uncalled for, and way below the belt. Damon's long-time girlfriend had dumped him a few months before they went to college. Even though he'd been a high-school jock and a pretty boy who was extremely popular in high school, he never picked on anyone. He was the kind of guy all the girls wanted to be with, and all the guys wanted to be like. When she'd outgrown the whole high-school-jock boyfriend phase (even though he was much more than that), his girlfriend had preferred to move away to a far-away college, where she'd hoped she'd find a rich douche she could eventually marry. Damon had never got over her and stopped dating ever since. It was a low blow from Kirk; he knew it was a sore spot.
"Come on, Kirk" I said. "Let's keep this civil. Just because he owned your arse with a sniper rifle in Call of Duty on your own X-Box, in your own living room, doesn't mean you get to lash out at him."
Kirk was an extremely sore loser. I could see that he wanted to reply, but he bit back what was probably a hurtful retort and shrugged.
"Who cares? I know I don't". Said Mitch, the final member of my entourage. Yes, it's my entourage. No, I'm not a self-centered narcissist. You know what, do you want to hear the story or not? No? Too bad, I'm talking, anyway. And I'll have you know that it's very funny story. Oh, NOW you want to hear it? Fine, but not another word out of you... <crickets chirping> That's better.
Mitch was the most entertaining of all of us. He was the weird, sardonic loner who nobody really likes but who admittedly makes outings a lot more fun. He practically lived in that weird part of YouTube, and frequently came up with those weird videos you'd have restricted access to if you have a life. A master of spontaneity, he'd randomly disappear at times and turn up an hour later, drunk out of his mind, with an Iraqi passport in his back pocket, no recollection of where he'd found it and no idea whose it was. The last name in the passport was Hussein, though, so it might have belonged to someone related to the late Iraqi president. You did not hear this from me.
It was ironic, Mitch giving relationship advice. Mitch was the bluntest, meanest, out-rightly-frankest bloke you'd ever meet. His father was in the army, and that's the kind of upbringing he'd got. And as we all know, blunt honesty with females of the human variety tends to go rather.. unappreciated. In other words, it was a running joke that Mitch couldn't get laid in a women's prison with an armful of pardons. Mitch maintained a healthy, albeit slightly abusive relationship with his right hand, which he acknowledged, adding that he sometimes cheated on it with his left hand. Yeah, we didn't like the joke when we heard it, either.
Presently, no one replied to Mitch. Rather uncreatively, faced with the daunting prospect of choosing a hurtful nickname for Mitch, we'd opted for "Bitch". Sometimes more obvious equals funnier. As it were, if you'd just heard a negative remark from someone you called "Bitch", there's often no need to voice a retort at all. His name is "Bitch". There's no competition, he'd lost forever.
We walked in silence, each of us absorbed in our own thoughts. Unwillingly, Mitch had brought to my mind something I'd been choosing to overlook. This relationship, if it were to ever happen, would never live up to my expectations. I don't think I'd even wanted it. And the more the ordeal dragged on, the more crushed I'd eventually be when I finally had to move on. As painful as it had seemed, I would have to call Rachel (her name was Rachel, something which BeeBee seemed to find very funny. He called me "Ross" for weeks after he'd found out) and tell her that this chapter of my life is over. "There's plenty more fish in the sea" I thought. Although a lot of these fish are either in inaccessible areas of the ocean, or carnivorous, or too small, or too poisonous, or too big. Come to think of it, that's a terrible metaphor. "There's plenty more ice-cream flavours" seemed like a more appropriate choice. I'd always thought Rachel tasted like a quite unorthodox blend, like "Cinnamon and grass ice cream" or "Tuna-Banana swirleys". Is there a kind of ice cream called a "Swirley"? I think it sounds rather ice-creamish, don't you think? There should be more swirleys in the world of ice cream. I should make a mental note of that. Hmm, too many mental notes. I should write this down.
Now what should I do? Oh I know, my blog!
Well, that ended rather abruptly. Very unaccommodating of me. Dreadfully sorry, I'm sure. In the interest of providing even a little bit of closure I offer you this: " I moved on and the girl got incinerated in a terrible fire which may or may not have been started by our very own Mitch. You did not hear this from me."
No? It seems like an appropriate ending. Well, your opinion doesn't count, I'm writing the story. Don't you take that tone with me... Fine, I'll work on the ending. Seriously, some people just don't understand theatrics. There might be more entries in this story, so stay tuned. Or, more appropriately, bookmark this page. Ha ha.
(I have no idea why I'm being British. But I think it's a rather appropriate development, don't you agree?)
"Stop being a wuss and man up."
Ha. Brian Brody just called me a wuss. The guy whose unfortunate initials were B.B - which inspired his creative high-school class mates to nickname him "BeeBee", "Baby", "B-cups" and "Boobjob" (which had more to do with his flabby man-breasts than his initials) - thinks I should man up. The irony. I started to formulate a witty retort, but I was overwhelmed by the vast array of names I could call him and ended up responding with an elegant, timeless "Shut up".
I'd just met my long-time friend/crush/almost-girlfriend/I-don't-know-what-to-call-her after a couple of months of chilly conversations of decreasing frequency, and even though I'd moved on (or I'd thought I did) a long time ago, every time I met her it was like there was all this tension and unresolved feelings left hanging in the air, and the fact that Brian kept doing the Gangnam style dance behind her back to force me to laugh didn't help. It had always been an unresolved story-line, a will they/won't they kind of dance that we did every few months, only for one of us to get in a relationship and start being distant, which was OK since an explosive break-up usually followed and the cycle started all over again. I wasn't even sure I liked her that much, but the thrill of the chase and the intimacy of the dance kept me hooked. That time, when we met, I could definitely feel something. Maybe I was having feelings for her again. Or maybe I shouldn't have had that last burrito. At any rate, I still couldn't shake off the feeling that maybe that time something might happen.
"I thought that went great, Ben!" Piped up the ever-happy Sarah. She was the only girl who willingly hung out with our band of inappropriate, that's-what-she-said-joke-abusing, online-game-playing geeks. Each of us had a separate life on his own, with other friends and girlfriends, but when we got together we always reverted to the fifteen-year-old teenagers that we were at heart. Four years at college hadn't helped with our immaturity. In fact, the older we got, the tighter we seemed to cling to our old ways, refusing to accept the responsibilities that came with adulthood.
"I say you move on, mate." Suggested Kirk, always Captain Obvious. "It's been years, and honestly, you could do much better, you're too good for her". Tut, tut, tut. Kirk... Sweet, lovable, idiotic Kirk. Again, always stating the obvious. Kirk was the relationship specialist in our pack. Even though he was five foot five, balding, and of square build, none of which (as I was told) was very appealing to females, he'd been in more relationships than all of us combined, Sarah included. Or as he liked to put it- or rather, boast at the top of his lungs to anyone who would listen- "I'd get more tail on a deserted island in the pacific ocean at 3 AM in a bomb shelter 50 feet underground than you'd all get at a fat cougar reunion with an open bar". Hmm, maybe next time I could make a joke about the tail he got on that island being of the variety usually found attached to squirrels. I made a mental note to snap that at him the next time he brought it up.
"Don't listen to him, Ben, go get her.. you'd be great together" Said Damon.
"Oh, what do you know? It's not like you've been with a girl in five years." Snapped Kirk.
That was uncalled for, and way below the belt. Damon's long-time girlfriend had dumped him a few months before they went to college. Even though he'd been a high-school jock and a pretty boy who was extremely popular in high school, he never picked on anyone. He was the kind of guy all the girls wanted to be with, and all the guys wanted to be like. When she'd outgrown the whole high-school-jock boyfriend phase (even though he was much more than that), his girlfriend had preferred to move away to a far-away college, where she'd hoped she'd find a rich douche she could eventually marry. Damon had never got over her and stopped dating ever since. It was a low blow from Kirk; he knew it was a sore spot.
"Come on, Kirk" I said. "Let's keep this civil. Just because he owned your arse with a sniper rifle in Call of Duty on your own X-Box, in your own living room, doesn't mean you get to lash out at him."
Kirk was an extremely sore loser. I could see that he wanted to reply, but he bit back what was probably a hurtful retort and shrugged.
"Who cares? I know I don't". Said Mitch, the final member of my entourage. Yes, it's my entourage. No, I'm not a self-centered narcissist. You know what, do you want to hear the story or not? No? Too bad, I'm talking, anyway. And I'll have you know that it's very funny story. Oh, NOW you want to hear it? Fine, but not another word out of you... <crickets chirping> That's better.
Mitch was the most entertaining of all of us. He was the weird, sardonic loner who nobody really likes but who admittedly makes outings a lot more fun. He practically lived in that weird part of YouTube, and frequently came up with those weird videos you'd have restricted access to if you have a life. A master of spontaneity, he'd randomly disappear at times and turn up an hour later, drunk out of his mind, with an Iraqi passport in his back pocket, no recollection of where he'd found it and no idea whose it was. The last name in the passport was Hussein, though, so it might have belonged to someone related to the late Iraqi president. You did not hear this from me.
It was ironic, Mitch giving relationship advice. Mitch was the bluntest, meanest, out-rightly-frankest bloke you'd ever meet. His father was in the army, and that's the kind of upbringing he'd got. And as we all know, blunt honesty with females of the human variety tends to go rather.. unappreciated. In other words, it was a running joke that Mitch couldn't get laid in a women's prison with an armful of pardons. Mitch maintained a healthy, albeit slightly abusive relationship with his right hand, which he acknowledged, adding that he sometimes cheated on it with his left hand. Yeah, we didn't like the joke when we heard it, either.
Presently, no one replied to Mitch. Rather uncreatively, faced with the daunting prospect of choosing a hurtful nickname for Mitch, we'd opted for "Bitch". Sometimes more obvious equals funnier. As it were, if you'd just heard a negative remark from someone you called "Bitch", there's often no need to voice a retort at all. His name is "Bitch". There's no competition, he'd lost forever.
We walked in silence, each of us absorbed in our own thoughts. Unwillingly, Mitch had brought to my mind something I'd been choosing to overlook. This relationship, if it were to ever happen, would never live up to my expectations. I don't think I'd even wanted it. And the more the ordeal dragged on, the more crushed I'd eventually be when I finally had to move on. As painful as it had seemed, I would have to call Rachel (her name was Rachel, something which BeeBee seemed to find very funny. He called me "Ross" for weeks after he'd found out) and tell her that this chapter of my life is over. "There's plenty more fish in the sea" I thought. Although a lot of these fish are either in inaccessible areas of the ocean, or carnivorous, or too small, or too poisonous, or too big. Come to think of it, that's a terrible metaphor. "There's plenty more ice-cream flavours" seemed like a more appropriate choice. I'd always thought Rachel tasted like a quite unorthodox blend, like "Cinnamon and grass ice cream" or "Tuna-Banana swirleys". Is there a kind of ice cream called a "Swirley"? I think it sounds rather ice-creamish, don't you think? There should be more swirleys in the world of ice cream. I should make a mental note of that. Hmm, too many mental notes. I should write this down.
Now what should I do? Oh I know, my blog!
Well, that ended rather abruptly. Very unaccommodating of me. Dreadfully sorry, I'm sure. In the interest of providing even a little bit of closure I offer you this: " I moved on and the girl got incinerated in a terrible fire which may or may not have been started by our very own Mitch. You did not hear this from me."
No? It seems like an appropriate ending. Well, your opinion doesn't count, I'm writing the story. Don't you take that tone with me... Fine, I'll work on the ending. Seriously, some people just don't understand theatrics. There might be more entries in this story, so stay tuned. Or, more appropriately, bookmark this page. Ha ha.
(I have no idea why I'm being British. But I think it's a rather appropriate development, don't you agree?)
