Anonymous asked: Why don't you answer my calls? I thought the night we shared together was special, yet you continue to ignore me via Facebook, text, and telephone. Is it because I own every season of Boy Meets World? I miss your touch. Please put me out of my misery.
Dear Anonymous,
There are a lot of things I regret. I regret that I didn’t scream like a fangirl when I saw Danny Masterson in the airport that time. I regret ordering that bacon cheeseburger right before having that really long drive. I regret telling you that only chumps and squares watch Boy Meets World. I regret spending $12 on that album by that band who played iPhones in the NY subway. They suck.
But I don’t regret our night together. I’ll never forget how we met, in that yogurt shop off Main St.; you with your cardigan and that foul look on your face because you had just realized it was yogurt and not ice cream you were eating, and me with yogurt dripping down the front of my appropriately ironic tee (“World’s Greatest Dad”).
My day before you waltzed into my life was awful; I had just been to the DMV. They hate everyone, you know, at the DMV. It’s always winter there, but never Christmas. I thought some fro-yo could make everything better, but I was wrong. Just when I had given up hope, and was measuring the plastic spoon to see if it would fit into my eyeball, you walked in. I was sure a more perfect and callipygian person could not exist. It may have been forward of me to dig my spoon into your yogurt cup before I even introduced myself, but I couldn’t resist. Besides, you had Reese’s. I didn’t know they had Reese’s there.
We talked about things. Yo-yo’s, how to pluralize the word “yo-yo”, the new Italian place on State St., art, how we don’t really know anything about art but would like to learn, that awful Nicholas Cage movie that just came out, toadstools, and the abbreviation of the word “aggregate.” You knew things about things, like board games, and wine, and HDTVs; and you used words like “antediluvian,” “inebriated,” and “dope.”
I’ll never regret our night together, there in that little yogurt shop, and later, when they closed, on the corner next to that really chatty homeless fellow who we ended up taking to dinner and a movie with us. Both you and he thought Prince of Persia: Sands of Time was the shiz; I was less than amused. Those were good times… good times….yeah…
But, Anonymous, it is too late for me. I cannot come back to us; I am far far away by now. For me, you see, it meant everything and nothing. You were a fling and a love affair. I was both passionate and disinterested. Honeymoon and divorce. (You get it? ‘Cause there are plenty more where those came from, if it’s not clear.) So you see, we can never be.
I hope this gives you some closure. Please, stop calling. It’s getting harder and harder to refuse your calls (especially because I tell my mother, “it’s my boss, I’ll just call him back later.” She’s getting suspicious, especially since I’m unemployed.) And leave me alone on Facebook, you’re clogging my news feed. Follow me on Twitter, though! I almost have 10 followers. Woot!
Sincerely,
Me.
