andhow
03-24-2010, 12:05 PM
OMG, FML
I have an unwritten rule that requires me to wear pants with five button flies only. But that really isn’t important. I lead a very active social life, what with all my MySpace friends, Facebooking, WOW, the forum site I belong to where I call everyone a fag, not to mention my AIM buddy list is blowing-up; I barely have time for the important stuff, like Twittering and trying to get these emo-chicks to go on a second date with me.
All in all, I think that I’m pretty frickin’ awesome. At least that’s what I want you to think. When we meet I’ll be sure to mention that I ‘Run’ the company I work for as a web designer. I’ll mention how I and only I know all the codes for the website to run correctly, which, as I’m sure you’re aware, makes me ruler of all I survey.
“Sure we’ll go with you.” I’ll say, in my black t-shirt and jeans from J.C. Penny and my very, very cool steel necklace with that earthy little pendant. I bet you thought I’d turn down your half-hearted invitation. Well think again amigo! Yeah, me and my date were a little under-dressed compared to you two but that’s okay. Now’s my chance to showcase how much better I am than you. “I’ll just follow you guys.” I’ll say. You hurt my feelings when you laughed at my green Taurus over the phone. I hate you already. You roll up thinking you’re just the man in your Mercedes, big deal. Dickhead.
At dinner everyone sort of gives me and my date a strange look when we walk in. You’re what, twenty? Who the hell you think you are going to a place like this? Pulling out her chair and checking the coats, don’t you realize that sort of stuff gets you nowhere with the ladies? Jesus Christ this isn’t the sixteen hundreds. I swear to God if this was the internet I’d call you a faggot here and now. Instead, the usual small talk. You order your Clams Casino appetizer and whatever entrée that was. I think about my wallet and me and my date decide to split an order of chicken fingers. We didn’t really already eat.
While you chat with her I look at my date. Sheesh, I hope her track marks aren’t showing. I glance across the table and see how happy she looks. I don’t know why I came out. I really don’t know why I came at all. She grabs one of your shrimp and I start telling that same funny story I told her. The one that she told you already, in disgust. The story about the time my mom (who I live with) reached across the table to grab some of my Kong-Pow Chicken and I stabbed her with my fork, ha-ha. “True gentleman.” You say, and both our dates laugh. ****. You.
At dinner you talk about your job, your ideas about the economy, you talk about how you work full time, go to school, and are the starting third-baseman for the baseball team, batting whatever-eighteen. No-one cares. Don’t you realize I’m supposed to be shining here? I don’t even think you care whether it sounds like you’re bragging. She starts saying how it’s nice that even though it’s not the same exact thing it’s awesome that you two both have a passion for something. I make a point to say I hate sports. I say it’s because sports are just dumb games played by men that think they are children. The real reason I don’t like them is, well, look at me.
Finally you two finished that delicious looking Italian Rum Cake. As she hops back in your uber-expensive ride I think to myself ‘that’s probably to make up for a small dick.’ “Hey” I call to her before she sits, “I’ll talk to you tonight. You know, later.”
“I doubt it.” She says.
“Oh it won’t be for a while, you’ll be on AIM.”
“Not tonight chief.” You interrupt. She smiles sheepishly and hops in. Oh real gentlemanly there, pal.
As you drive off I get in. My date gives me a bit of a glare. I don’t know for sure but I don’t think it’s the sexy kind. As I drive in the silence I think about where I went wrong. How I let a guy like you take her. All I can do is keep telling myself I’m somehow better than you. Because when I was in high school I knew that I’d be better than guys like you. So now I place myself on my pedestal. Like I’m in some sort of special club, because I’m obviously smart, because I know **** that you don’t.
When we get to her house I ask if I’m invited up. “I really don’t think so. You should hurry home and get on AIM right?” Ouch.
I get to my house and login. Cracking my knuckles as I plot the assassination of this douche-bag. You knew me before you knew him, we dated first, remember? That must make me your favorite. I ****ed you before he ever did. I probably shouldn’t mention that though. I scroll up and down three or four times before I give up. You really aren’t online? Jesus, I’m going to bed.
The next day at work that old familiar ‘Ding’ of a message. You asked me what I think of your new man. ‘Now’s your chance.’ I think to myself ‘Destroy him.’ “Oh” I reply “IDK he seems like the typical rich boy jock to me.” That’s the best I could do? Was that even a put down? FML.
I have an unwritten rule that requires me to wear pants with five button flies only. But that really isn’t important. I lead a very active social life, what with all my MySpace friends, Facebooking, WOW, the forum site I belong to where I call everyone a fag, not to mention my AIM buddy list is blowing-up; I barely have time for the important stuff, like Twittering and trying to get these emo-chicks to go on a second date with me.
All in all, I think that I’m pretty frickin’ awesome. At least that’s what I want you to think. When we meet I’ll be sure to mention that I ‘Run’ the company I work for as a web designer. I’ll mention how I and only I know all the codes for the website to run correctly, which, as I’m sure you’re aware, makes me ruler of all I survey.
“Sure we’ll go with you.” I’ll say, in my black t-shirt and jeans from J.C. Penny and my very, very cool steel necklace with that earthy little pendant. I bet you thought I’d turn down your half-hearted invitation. Well think again amigo! Yeah, me and my date were a little under-dressed compared to you two but that’s okay. Now’s my chance to showcase how much better I am than you. “I’ll just follow you guys.” I’ll say. You hurt my feelings when you laughed at my green Taurus over the phone. I hate you already. You roll up thinking you’re just the man in your Mercedes, big deal. Dickhead.
At dinner everyone sort of gives me and my date a strange look when we walk in. You’re what, twenty? Who the hell you think you are going to a place like this? Pulling out her chair and checking the coats, don’t you realize that sort of stuff gets you nowhere with the ladies? Jesus Christ this isn’t the sixteen hundreds. I swear to God if this was the internet I’d call you a faggot here and now. Instead, the usual small talk. You order your Clams Casino appetizer and whatever entrée that was. I think about my wallet and me and my date decide to split an order of chicken fingers. We didn’t really already eat.
While you chat with her I look at my date. Sheesh, I hope her track marks aren’t showing. I glance across the table and see how happy she looks. I don’t know why I came out. I really don’t know why I came at all. She grabs one of your shrimp and I start telling that same funny story I told her. The one that she told you already, in disgust. The story about the time my mom (who I live with) reached across the table to grab some of my Kong-Pow Chicken and I stabbed her with my fork, ha-ha. “True gentleman.” You say, and both our dates laugh. ****. You.
At dinner you talk about your job, your ideas about the economy, you talk about how you work full time, go to school, and are the starting third-baseman for the baseball team, batting whatever-eighteen. No-one cares. Don’t you realize I’m supposed to be shining here? I don’t even think you care whether it sounds like you’re bragging. She starts saying how it’s nice that even though it’s not the same exact thing it’s awesome that you two both have a passion for something. I make a point to say I hate sports. I say it’s because sports are just dumb games played by men that think they are children. The real reason I don’t like them is, well, look at me.
Finally you two finished that delicious looking Italian Rum Cake. As she hops back in your uber-expensive ride I think to myself ‘that’s probably to make up for a small dick.’ “Hey” I call to her before she sits, “I’ll talk to you tonight. You know, later.”
“I doubt it.” She says.
“Oh it won’t be for a while, you’ll be on AIM.”
“Not tonight chief.” You interrupt. She smiles sheepishly and hops in. Oh real gentlemanly there, pal.
As you drive off I get in. My date gives me a bit of a glare. I don’t know for sure but I don’t think it’s the sexy kind. As I drive in the silence I think about where I went wrong. How I let a guy like you take her. All I can do is keep telling myself I’m somehow better than you. Because when I was in high school I knew that I’d be better than guys like you. So now I place myself on my pedestal. Like I’m in some sort of special club, because I’m obviously smart, because I know **** that you don’t.
When we get to her house I ask if I’m invited up. “I really don’t think so. You should hurry home and get on AIM right?” Ouch.
I get to my house and login. Cracking my knuckles as I plot the assassination of this douche-bag. You knew me before you knew him, we dated first, remember? That must make me your favorite. I ****ed you before he ever did. I probably shouldn’t mention that though. I scroll up and down three or four times before I give up. You really aren’t online? Jesus, I’m going to bed.
The next day at work that old familiar ‘Ding’ of a message. You asked me what I think of your new man. ‘Now’s your chance.’ I think to myself ‘Destroy him.’ “Oh” I reply “IDK he seems like the typical rich boy jock to me.” That’s the best I could do? Was that even a put down? FML.