busting chops for fun and profit…
I love my friends.
I do. Really.
I think they are great.
Okay, so sometimes my friends are a-holes. That doesn’t mean I don’t love them. It means that every now and again, I get the urge to club them over the head, fur trapper style. Or maybe throw some oranges in a pillow case and go to town.
So what, you might ask, would set off such a fit of rage in such a peaceful and genteel gal? Perhaps it has something to do with BH McTease. Well, indirectly. When I told my boys of NYC about my sad state of affairs, they were ridiculously sweet and supportive. They took me out. They bought me too many drinks. They indulged my need for karaoke as therapy. They even gave me really sound advice from a guy’s perspective on what I should and shouldn’t do.
Triple G insisted that I should hold fast. No calls. No communications. BH should no longer exist. A lot of my Chicago peanuts were singing in agreement. Buzzing around the other ear, I have Steve History saying that I should call BH. He’s a friend. How could I be so cold? It will be a better way to have closure. My peanuts told me to tell Mr. History to shove it.
For the most part, the recommendations from my NYC peeps were somewhere in between. The consensus was “Don’t be friends. It’s an impossibility. Huge mistake. What’s the point? You are doing the right thing. But then again, you do seem kind of sad. You should do what you want. Have you talked to him? So when are you seeing him again?” Cute.
Like I said. My friends are great. Collectively and individually, they’ve got my back. They prop me up with good options, and are there for me should I choose to ignore them entirely. They let me be mopey, and they cheer me up with an occasional dirty joke. They give advice when I ask, and zip it if I don’t. They are everything friends should be. Or at least mostly what they should be.
It seems that there are small, growing pools of cash sprouting up around me. Mr. History and Triple G started the original idea, and it took off. It seems that all over the tri-state area, people are putting money down on whether I will be communicating with BH anytime soon. Some of my peeps have even taken it so far as to have different wagers set for different modes of communication, e.g., $20 for phone calls, $ 40 for chat (greater temptation), $10 for emails or text messages, and a $5 bonus for each infraction made under the influence. I would need an actuarial table to keep this mess in line.
They all say that they’re betting for me, though I am not sure what that means. All I know is that I am getting absolutely no cash from any of these pools. I will say that a few have offered me lunch to sweeten the deal, while others attempt to ply me with alcohol so as to get my drunken text on. Some have been hiding my cell phone, while a few will ask me to talk about the happier times.
Evidently, there is also an entirely different pay-out schedule should BH contact me.
Like I said. A-holes.