A Personal Conversation Which I Am Publishing On The Internet For You All To Read, Because, Hey, It's The 21st Century
JENNIFER WESTIRFIRDE MERKLEY, YOU ARE IN BIG TROUBLE WITH ME.
I really wish I knew your middle name and that "Westirfirde" were it, because, woah, what a great middle name to have. Of course, no middle name in existence could have prevented tonight's awkward situation in the basement of the BYU Bookstore, where I was casually picking up some notebooks so I could do my homework and was accosted by that boy I met in your apartment and held hostage during a strained and forced and, through parts of it, terribly cold (as we were standing outside) conversation.
I don't know how to extricate myself from social meetings. I possess no instinct for graceful endings...normally, things are enjoyable until they end of their own accord, so I float along with it all, "going with the flow," as kids these days say. I think. Well, in MY day, they said it, and that's good enough for me. But. Back to the subject at hand: I didn't know what to do. Faking a seizure seems like a brilliant option, but unfortunately, I didn't think of it at the time. Now, I could probably come up with a list of about 28 different excuses I could pull, but not then. I was confronted with a face that was vaguely familiar to me, and had a name shoved back into recollection by his voice, and all of a sudden, I found myself playing along, pretending I remembered people and events that have long past slipped my memory.
And you know what? It's all your fault. You, and your finely-tuned culinary abilities and stupid, wonderful Christmas letter writing and soft, soft couches. I have one word for you: BAH.
Also: I miss our chats during Brit Lit. Christina Rosetti goes unchecked and wildly lesbian when we're not there to cover our ears and weep for the loss of our innocence.
I really wish I knew your middle name and that "Westirfirde" were it, because, woah, what a great middle name to have. Of course, no middle name in existence could have prevented tonight's awkward situation in the basement of the BYU Bookstore, where I was casually picking up some notebooks so I could do my homework and was accosted by that boy I met in your apartment and held hostage during a strained and forced and, through parts of it, terribly cold (as we were standing outside) conversation.
I don't know how to extricate myself from social meetings. I possess no instinct for graceful endings...normally, things are enjoyable until they end of their own accord, so I float along with it all, "going with the flow," as kids these days say. I think. Well, in MY day, they said it, and that's good enough for me. But. Back to the subject at hand: I didn't know what to do. Faking a seizure seems like a brilliant option, but unfortunately, I didn't think of it at the time. Now, I could probably come up with a list of about 28 different excuses I could pull, but not then. I was confronted with a face that was vaguely familiar to me, and had a name shoved back into recollection by his voice, and all of a sudden, I found myself playing along, pretending I remembered people and events that have long past slipped my memory.
And you know what? It's all your fault. You, and your finely-tuned culinary abilities and stupid, wonderful Christmas letter writing and soft, soft couches. I have one word for you: BAH.
Also: I miss our chats during Brit Lit. Christina Rosetti goes unchecked and wildly lesbian when we're not there to cover our ears and weep for the loss of our innocence.
posted by juxtaposer at 9:27 PM
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