Status: More chapters whenever something else happens.
This is my Life
Texting
Here’s a text conversation I had with a friend the other night:
She was complaining about being cold, saying, “I know I need to get up the strength to run to the AC… or see if someone else will turn it off for me.”
My response was, “Poor baby. You need a sexy shirtless guy to turn it off for you.”
“Yes’m. Wanna send me one?”
I told her, “Sorry, fresh out. Check E-bay.”
“But he won’t come until after we’re gone,” she complained. We were going out of town the next day.
“Hm. This is a problem. Better get a sexy, magical shirtless guy who can teleport. I heard there’s a special.”
“Yes. Can he have nice hair and pretty blue eyes?”
“Aw, I was thinking a Brazilian,” I said. She told me she wasn’t going to go for that, so I added, “Don’t you like those accents?”
Thus began a conversation about accents from various countries. I’m not sure, but somehow it morphed into her saying, “The dough boy is too real. Just like Santa, Spongebob, and the loch ness monster.”
“It’s like a blindfold has been removed and I can finally see! I will never doubt any of them again,” I said dramatically.
“Spread the word, homie.”
“Homie? Excuse me, but that’s not my name, Patricia,” I argued. Her name, by the way, is not Patricia or anything close to it.
“Well jeez, Gretchen, you don’t have to flip out.” My name is certainly not Gretchen, for anyone not following.
“Oh yes I do, Francine. I’ve been putting up with your hurtful words for too long.”
“Well, Cher, I guess that’s it, then! Our sixty nine year friendship is coming to an end because of strawberry jam,” she said. Confused yet? We weren’t exactly trying to make sense.
“Oh, but what jam it is, Alberta. Besides, I think we both know this is really about the color magenta.”
“Oh yeah, Clarice? Well, I get heartburn every time I look at you,” she told me.
“That’s only because you’re jealous of my movie star good looks, Ursula,” I fired back.
“Well, maybe if you weren’t always trying to steal my man, Rashawnda, I would be willing to share my lipstick with you.” By the way, to this day, she calls me Rashawnda.
“I wouldn’t want to share your lipstick anyways, Bernice. It’s covered in cooties.”
“Well maybe if you weren’t always lolly gagging, Thelma, you would realize that Simon Cowell will never smile due to your attempted belly dancing.” Ouch, that’s hurtful. Or it would be if I belly danced.
“At least I don’t have a rash shaped like a bunny on my forehead, Rapunzel.”
“Well, at least I don’t have a receding hairline, Darlene.”
“No, but you do have billy goat breath, Geraldine,” was my brilliant comeback.
“Well, at least my husband has both of his legs, Mikey.”
“Didn’t you hear? Legs are overrated, Elvira.”
“Psh. Well, your son has three eyes. Explain that, Georgette.”
At that point, I was running out of ‘witty’ responses and we were leaving early in the morning, so I told her, “I’m off to bed, Ziva. Don’t think you’ve won this.”
“Oh, I think I have, Romilda.”
She was complaining about being cold, saying, “I know I need to get up the strength to run to the AC… or see if someone else will turn it off for me.”
My response was, “Poor baby. You need a sexy shirtless guy to turn it off for you.”
“Yes’m. Wanna send me one?”
I told her, “Sorry, fresh out. Check E-bay.”
“But he won’t come until after we’re gone,” she complained. We were going out of town the next day.
“Hm. This is a problem. Better get a sexy, magical shirtless guy who can teleport. I heard there’s a special.”
“Yes. Can he have nice hair and pretty blue eyes?”
“Aw, I was thinking a Brazilian,” I said. She told me she wasn’t going to go for that, so I added, “Don’t you like those accents?”
Thus began a conversation about accents from various countries. I’m not sure, but somehow it morphed into her saying, “The dough boy is too real. Just like Santa, Spongebob, and the loch ness monster.”
“It’s like a blindfold has been removed and I can finally see! I will never doubt any of them again,” I said dramatically.
“Spread the word, homie.”
“Homie? Excuse me, but that’s not my name, Patricia,” I argued. Her name, by the way, is not Patricia or anything close to it.
“Well jeez, Gretchen, you don’t have to flip out.” My name is certainly not Gretchen, for anyone not following.
“Oh yes I do, Francine. I’ve been putting up with your hurtful words for too long.”
“Well, Cher, I guess that’s it, then! Our sixty nine year friendship is coming to an end because of strawberry jam,” she said. Confused yet? We weren’t exactly trying to make sense.
“Oh, but what jam it is, Alberta. Besides, I think we both know this is really about the color magenta.”
“Oh yeah, Clarice? Well, I get heartburn every time I look at you,” she told me.
“That’s only because you’re jealous of my movie star good looks, Ursula,” I fired back.
“Well, maybe if you weren’t always trying to steal my man, Rashawnda, I would be willing to share my lipstick with you.” By the way, to this day, she calls me Rashawnda.
“I wouldn’t want to share your lipstick anyways, Bernice. It’s covered in cooties.”
“Well maybe if you weren’t always lolly gagging, Thelma, you would realize that Simon Cowell will never smile due to your attempted belly dancing.” Ouch, that’s hurtful. Or it would be if I belly danced.
“At least I don’t have a rash shaped like a bunny on my forehead, Rapunzel.”
“Well, at least I don’t have a receding hairline, Darlene.”
“No, but you do have billy goat breath, Geraldine,” was my brilliant comeback.
“Well, at least my husband has both of his legs, Mikey.”
“Didn’t you hear? Legs are overrated, Elvira.”
“Psh. Well, your son has three eyes. Explain that, Georgette.”
At that point, I was running out of ‘witty’ responses and we were leaving early in the morning, so I told her, “I’m off to bed, Ziva. Don’t think you’ve won this.”
“Oh, I think I have, Romilda.”