So, you know how I’ve got a “Man on the Inside?” Someone with fairly regular contact with Gavin and his flunkies, who just happens to be one of my oldest friends? This was our conversation via text last night, as I sat in my living room carving pumpkins and watching Forensic Files:
Man on Inside: I’m three seats away from Gavin.
Spots: SHUT UP! You lie.
MOI: I’m closer than you’ll ever be.
Spots: I’ve met him, you idiot. And it was magical.
MOI: He just asked about you.
Spots: You’re an asshole. Where are you?
MOI: 5 blocks away from you.
Spots: God, you’re so stupid. Where are you really?
MOI: Uh, 5 locks away from you. Medjool.
Spots: Gavin wouldn’t be caught dead there.
MOI: Well, he would and he is. Are you coming?
Spots: I don’t believe you.
MOI: I swear on Bob.
(Now, this is serious. Man on the Inside would never lie about this. He might swear on God, he might swear on the Bible, he might even swear at the dinner table, but he’d never swear on Bob, my wonderful, late grandfather, unless it was truer than true.)
Spots: OH MY GOD!
MOI: How fast can you get here?
Spots: I look like shit.
MOI: How fast can you get here and not look like shit?
I was already ignoring his texts at this point, fervently pulling pumpkin seeds from my hair, throwing on cute jeans and rapidly digging through the pashmina pile, hoping to cover myself in any way possible. Uh, my hair. My hair is disgusting! Would a beret be too much…
MOI: Where are you?
Spots: He’s still there? I’m getting ready.
MOI: Have you left yet?
Spots: I’m halfway out the door.
Bag, beret, pashmina, glasses…I looked like an over-accessorized, undercover cop. So it’ just as well when…
MOI: And he’s gone.
Fuck, fuck, fuck…