fred never-got-his-last-name

Fred I-Never-Got-His-Last-Name was tall, freckled and despite being skinny, was an otherwise attracted guy. He was so complimentary, I kind of thought I would be the one to diss him, but as fate would have it, he would embarrass the shit out of my in front of my mom’s apartment one summer day.

We were going to go the Gorge to see Tom Petty and had discussed possibly getting a hotel because there was supposed to be thunderstorms. But he was a hippy and I was trying to impress, so I said I was down with camping.

The plan was to meet at 2pm. I had just sold my car to move to New York, so he was driving. He had a red Mazda. I went downstairs with all my gear at 1:45 and waited until 3. The wait combined with the fact that he never called or picked up my phone calls again, combined with the fact that he wanted to use two condoms to fuck, combined with the fact that three years later, I saw him at the Whole Foods in Union Square and his girlfriend had dreads makes me realized that he deserves an exploding hacky sack full of acid thrown at his face.

bodega lisp man

my logical mind knows its not your fault, but I still cannot stand you. i hate you bodega lisp man. why not chose a profession where you are never seen—ideally never heard.

i don’t need to make small talk, bodega lisp man. the more you talk, the more I hate you. i assume you were ridiculed as a child—i guess that didn’t help. i feel violent. maybe a hard punch would slap the lisp right out of you…probably not.

i will get my coffee and cigarettes elsewhere–i hope you never find happiness.

sorry we met, shitlips.

wtf, Gay Don

i thought I would be friends with Don Pox, a gay Texan, when he told me he once dabbled in Scientology. but the universe insists we hate each other, so I nag him about unread emails and then he makes me feel like a spoiled, ungrateful brat in return.

he laughs so loudly I can hear him through the elevator banks, the elevator shafts, on different floors, from outside and his laughter sounds like a ten car pile-up of drag queens.

he listens to house music in his office decorated with lava lamps and he wears tuxedo pants every day to work.

Don Pox is also the lunch bandit, so I’m not alone in hating him. one time Gina from my floor left a poisonous note for him in the fridge and the stealing stopped briefly. but my boss, who is trying to lose weight for her wedding and only buys 100 calorie packages of everything, says there has been a reoccurrence of the sticky fingers and that some of her snack packs have gone missing.

one time at a meeting I said something and Don leapt out of his chair as if he had been startled and in the gayest southern accent I have ever heard said, “MELLLLLISSSA?!?!? I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW YOU WERE IN HERE…YOURE SO……” and then as if searching for the right word, paused, and gestured wildly with both his hands until he finished, “INVISIBLE!”

fuck you, Don. next.

vacation girl

we met on vacation–i never knew people from Long Island were amongst the worst on the planet–every last one of them. i moved in with you, vacation girl.

luckily cutters don’t turn their knives on their roommates. too bad you can’t cut off the OCD, ADD, ADHD, delusions, psychosis, and Long Island frame of mind.

sorry we me you stretch mark covered bitch.

young love

We met when I was 15.

the first time we boned, you were a virgin and I had to leave 5 minutes into it because my ride was there. I remember still having the semi-used condom in my hand when I jumped in my buddy’s car. I threw it out the window and onto the street as we rolled away from your mom’s apartment.

You bleached my pubic hair and made me spaghetti noodles with cheese and no sauce. I used to call you a liar because you lied all the time. it’s funny that you took it so personally. I still hate pop punk, cigarette smoke and your weirdo mom.

Sorry we met.