She’s there. She’s just there. I don’t understand it. Five foot one inch tall and every-fucking-where. She breaks physics. At a party, at a bar, on the sidewalk, it doesn’t matter, she’s there. In the morning, at night, at 3 a.m. She’s there. I don’t know how she does it. The only legitimate explanation is that she’s a fun-sucking, bitter-hearted vampire-robot sent by her future self to ruin my life. That’s the only reason that makes sense to me.
I was talking to a girl at a party on Saturday night. Her name was Angela. She was gorgeous. Nice smile, very smart, great teeth, long chestnut hair, pretty face. The whole package. Everything was going well. So well. We talked about our ambitions in life. Her wanting to better people’s lives, my wanting to live to see the third Star Wars trilogy, everything was peachy keen. As I was about to ask her for her number, the vampbot climbs onto the nearest table. ‘This cannot be good.’ I think. Everyone starts to mumble and point, mostly at her but a bit at me, as she struggles to maintain her balance. Her body starts jolting back and forth, awkwardly jutting about. I thought she was having a seizure standing up. I took out my phone and dialed a nine and a one before she started humping the air and I realized she wasn’t dying, she was dancing.
Then, to my horror, she found me in the crowd, locked devil eyes with me. She leaned towards me, absent cleavage leaving everything to be desired, and beckoned me to her. I looked away, pretended that the giant-fucking-elephant was not in the room. Angela looked at me, judgment one wrong answer away. I shrugged and mouthed ‘psycho.’ She laughed, I passed. Then my chances with Ms. Perfect were tarred, feathered and shot. The gyrating mess miraculously got down off the table, managed to shuffle over to me and planted a big, sloppy, nasty, vodka-scented kiss right on my lips. Then she yelled “I still love you. We aren’t over yet.” Conversation ceased to exist. All eyes on us. Awkward.
I was too stunned to even move. I just couldn’t comprehend what was going on. I checked my mental calendar of legal and illegal trips I’ve taken recently and came up with nothing that could produce such a horrible hallucination. When I came back to my senses Angela was gone and I was being held hostage in what can only be described as standup-reverse-spooning. I tore away from my captor and ran out the door. “Angela! Angela!!” I called and called. She didn’t answer.
I sat down on a cold bench, cheeks still rosy from embarrassment, and took out my phone. I thought and thought. Then inspiration! Words from the bottom of my heart flowed from my thumbs and onto the screen. I was like William fucking Wallace. I scrolled down my contact list until I got to “Megabitch,” hit send, and yelled “Freedom!!” at the top of my lungs.
(850): You are like a giant, cock-blocking robot developed in some kind of secret fucking government lab.
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