I really hope Bikeshorts didn’t tell his "new friend" about my blog because I’ve got some things to say.
Jason, I love you deeply, but oh my god.
Bikeshorts texts me to let me know he hit Biron last night, a mere 24 hours after Berkeleyist and I enjoyed a bottle of something I don’t remember. I was home alone, watching Boiler Room like the loser that I am, and texted back my beloved Bikeshorts, who I assumed was at Biron with an array of friends. Had I known he was on some hot, serious and territorial date, I would have left his metro ass alone and gone back to my movie. Apparently, his date got tired of Bikeshorts’ focus on his phone and lack thereof upon her and chose to text me herself.
This is where she went wrong.
All of a sudden, I get a text from some random number, the message involving a series of shorthand and smiley faces I believe to be reserved for the stupid. I do not shorthand my texts, people. Look at my photo. I commit to correct spelling.
Keep in mind, I’m still mad at Bikeshorts from dumping the lovely lass that, upon meeting me, proclaimed "Beth? With the hilarious blog? Oh my god, you’re wonderful."
Her, I liked.
But insane, 10th grade texter was working my nerves. Everytime my phone would glow, I’d roll my eyes and be forced to text something witty yet slightly bitchy in response. I have a coveted collection of very close, very good, very straight gentleman friends. And I reserve the right to hate every skank they date. In fact, I’ve perfected it to an art. Texter was making this too easy.
Why Bikeshorts gave her my number is beyond me. And why she chose to text me a series of mildly retarded grasps at humor is perhaps a testament to her inability to remain cool under pressure. Either way, I now have to make fun of her until the end of time.
Which, as Bikeshorts is well aware, I fully intend to do...