awkward encounter: aisle 722ndDecember
Posted by Sarah on Dec 22, 2008 in
Disclaimer: I'm drunk.
It isn’t the Christmas carols, although they remain in constant rotation. It isn’t the hazardous parents, shoving, taking the offensive line to seize a My Little Over-privileged Brat Dreamhouse complete with X-box console and blue-ray DVD player (guaranteed to raise your child to be a misanthropic jackass for you.) It isn’t even the money I’m blowing on pedicure kit for my mom that she’ll never use. It’s suffering an inevitable, embarrassing encounter with a former acquaintance that makes holiday shopping godawful.
Place: Target – aisle 7--greeting cards.
Subject: Brooke—senior class president, cheerleader, 4.0 student, bitch—zenith of adolescent achievement.
Oh [shit]. Hey Brooke. [You cunt who ignored from kindergarten to senior year, save starting a rumor that I am lesbian.]
“Oh [fuck], Sarah. How are you?”
“I’m doing well." [Notice I don’t say “good.” I was in honors English and you weren’t.]
How are you?
“Pretty good.” [Inarticulate hussy.] I’m graduating from UCLA this spring and then I’m going to get my masters in communications.
[Could you choose a more broad based major? I hope you end up “communicating” with people as a Mary Kay representative.]
Small talk escalates into a contest of who has been more successful in the past four years.“What are you doing? Are you graduating soon?”
No. I, uh, I finished my undergrad and now I’m scouting universities.
“Cool. [Fuck off.] Don’t you live in Seattle or something?”
Portland. I lived in Portland.
“Cool [Fuck off.] L.A. is a great place to live—so much culture.” [Culture: waiting hours behind a red rope at some trashy nightclub where they won’t let you in. You’ve packed on a few pounds since high school, honey.]
Yeah, Portland has a lot of culture, too. More strip clubs per capita than Vegas and the blow is phenomenal.
“Oh?" [Were you a stripper? I bet you were a stripper.] "Why did you move home?"
Things got messy when my girlfriend dumped me—our best dinnerware shattered on the kitchen floor, bite marks and bruising. Hair pulling, blah, blah, blah.
“I’m so sorrrrry.” [No, really. Tell me more about your failure.]
I was devastated by it. I had a complete nervous breakdown. My parents committed me for a week. But that doesn’t surprise you. After all, I did wear a straight-jacket on career day sophomore year.
FYI: All of the above is true. But I'm not a lesbian.
(Annoying artificial laughter.)
“So, yeah…”
Well, I'll let you get back to your shopping. I’m looking for one of those do-it-yourself enema things. My dad has to dig dry turd out of his ass with his index finger.
“Okay, see you later.” [Or read thinly veiled insinuation of heroin overdose in your obituary. Coming soon.]
Bye, Brooke.
[I hope you get knocked up by a claims manager at State Farm with a decent salary and healthcare—for your own sake.]
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