I am the number you can’t delete from your cell phone. You would feel too guilty. I still live in your hometown and I get angry if I learn you came to visit your sister without calling me. You can be sure I’ll hear about it from my friends at the gas station. You have to go there to fill up your tank for $10 to $15 less than where you live.
Or do you not want to top off before you leave town?
You know where to find me. I hang out at the bar that neglected to card us in high school. What can I say: I’m nothing if not loyal.
I still go to the local high school football games with my thermos of hot cocoa and peppermint schnapps. It’s damn good—you’re missing out.
The women I sleep with can’t afford rhinoplasty. They stalk their prom date on the Internet 20 years later.
I sit in front of the junior varsity cheerleaders; people know not to take my spot. When in season, I also frequent the girls’ volleyball matches. Hey, I’m a creep—I don’t apologize.
If you like the smell of weed and ferret, you’re going to love my place. My brother and I live in the apartment above the greeting card store on Main Street. He goes to bed at 9:30, but that’s ok, he’s a heavy sleeper.
There are so many things to do at my place. I still have my Super Nintendo. If that’s not your bag anymore you can help yourself to any back issue of Playboy since 1973. The older ones are great. I’ve spent my entire adult life tracking those down on the internet. So don’t dirty ‘em up—you know what I mean!
It frustrates you to know I get laid more than you. I have chicken legs and a cartoonish beer belly. I have a hooknose and my eyes are a bit too close together. A chain smoker since seventh grade, I have subtracted 20 years from my life and deposited them directly onto my face. I know my range, though. You might have no respect, but this is an art form. I avoid that section of the BMI index that women strive for, anything on either end is just fine. And you might not pay any heed, but women who stand up too straight or walk too tall are right out. The slouchers are my bread and butter. Awkwardly tall slouchers are an especially fine delicacy.
The women I sleep with can’t afford rhinoplasty. They stalk their prom date on the Internet 20 years later. These women work thankless jobs for shit wages. This might be their first night out in weeks, as they’ve been saving up for a babysitter. Some are married to men who frequent the cheapest strip clubs. Most have daddy issues. When a woman at a bar starts talking about her father, I might as well reach for that generic-brand condom in my wallet.
Small town bachelorette parties might as well be an all-you-can-eat buffet. They often have scavenger hunts that include a photo with someone like me. The joke’s on them—but I understand why they think it’s funny.
While the women you sleep with worry you might not call again, the women I sleep with are terrified that I will. Leaving my apartment early in the morning, they’re relieved when I say “see you around” rather than “I’ll call you.”
I play the lottery every week, and I’ll probably win someday. When I do, you’ll resent that I have more money than you. Don’t worry—it’ll only last about six years. I’m going to build a giant house with a ping-pong table, a plasma TV, and a hot tub sex room. The rest of my money will go to off-track greyhound races.
Before you leave, I will make idle plans to come visit you. Then I will complain about rising cost of gas and remind you we don’t make as much money around here. My sense of entitlement will never let you forget that you owe me something.
Well, it’s been nice catching up with you, but in about four minutes the girls cross country team is going to run in front of my building and I need to be ready.
See you next time you’re in town.