I'm comin for you Bill

Swine Flu: The Disease That Nearly Killed A Friendship

A while back Swine Flu was a big enough scare on my campus that administrators just took your word on whether or not you had it and let you stay home. While the Ferris Bueller in me wanted to take advantage of this to hijack a parade, my immune system had other plans. Oh also, I spent the entirety of the time in my friend Kaleb’s room annoying the shit out of him.

Year: 2010

Location: Delta Kappa Epsilon (Kaleb’s room, mostly)

Day 1

Kalid enters the house and finds Kaleb slumped over the toilet. A few others are standing around watching Kaleb puke with apprehension before walking away in revulsion. Kalid, being the generous (and handsome) man that he is, tries to assist Kaleb.

Kalid: Hey bro, you okay?

Kaleb: Fuck you.

Kalid: Oh, well do you want anything?

Kaleb: I want to stop throwing up.

Kalid: Well duh.

Kaleb: That’s a punch

Day 2

Kaleb is laying on his couch covered in a blanket watching reruns of the African American sitcom “The Game”.  A bucket lies next to him and a roll of paper towels is on the table beside him. Half hearted chuckles can be heard coming from his room all through the first floor. Kalid barges in the room (like a dick) to find Kaleb’s sprawled body staring at the television.

                       

Kalid: I take it you didn’t go to school today?

Kaleb: Uh uh. Still sick.

Kalid: Did you take anything for it? I was going to get you some soup but I didn’t. My bad.

Kaleb: Go away.

Kalid leaves the room and is about to head home when a sickly feeling overcomes him. Within five seconds Kalid is on his knees over the toilet “pulling a Kaleb”. Since the bathroom is right next to Kaleb’s room and Kalid didn’t shut the door (again, like a dick) Kaleb can’t hear all of the “jokes” on his show.

Kaleb: You pukin?

Kalid: Yeah.

Kaleb: Heh heh.

Kalid: Are you laughing?

Kaleb: Yep.

Kalid: Why?

Kaleb: You sound like a girl when you puke.

Day 3

Kaleb is still laying in his bed watching the same show, even though there’s only like three seasons of it and he hasn’t gone to bed for more than 3 hours. In the futon next to him Kalid is huddled in a blanket with a wastebasket beside him. Kalid begins to make a noise that can only be compared to E.T. climaxing into a broken vacuum hose. Kaleb shoots Kalid an angry look.

Kalid: Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.

Kaleb: What. The. Fuck.

Kalid: I think I’m dying dude. I think this is really it. Uhhhhhhhh. Sniff.

Kaleb: You’ve only been sick for like five hours.

Kalid: I feel like my head is giving birth to the dad from Family Matters.

Kaleb throws the roll of paper towels at Kalid.  The paper towels miss Kalid and fly over the futon.

Kalid: You missed

Kaleb: That’s a punch.

Kalid: Because you missed?

Kaleb: Because you suck.

Kalid: Sniff.

Two hours later the two invalids are in an even worse condition. Kaleb has switched to adult swim re-runs as watching the same two black people make fun of the less black guy has finally gotten old. Kalid is still making that noise which has evolved into a cat giving birth over a Ke$ha song being played backwards at half speed.

Kaleb: Why are you still making that fucking noise?

Kalid: I can’t breathe out of my nose and I think my asthma is acting up. Can I use your inhaler?

Kaleb: No, you’re sick.

Kalid: I have the same flu as you.

Kaleb: No you don’t. I have the swine flu, you have a cold and you’re being a bitch.

Kalid: I threw up!

Kaleb: You always throw up. Freaking gross.

Kalid. Sniff.

Day 4

Kaleb’s girlfriend has arrived to take care of him and has brought over some movies.

Kaleb’s GF: How are you doing baby?

Kalid: Sniff.

Kaleb: Okay I guess. My stomach is less—

Kalid: Sniff.

Kaleb: Fucking Kalid.

Kaleb’s GF: I brought a movie we can watch.

Kalid: What movie?

Kaleb’s GF: The Soloist.

Kalid: Seen it. Jamie Fox tries way too hard to win the audience’s sympathy. Sniff.

Kaleb throws a paper towel at Kalid and it hits him in the head.

Kalid: Dick. Sniff.

Kaleb: That’s a punch.

Kalid: Worth it.

Kaleb: That’s another.

Kalid: Isn’t it enough that you got me sick?

Kaleb: I definitely didn’t get you sick.

Kalid: How do you know that?

Kaleb: My germs would kick the shit out of you.

Kalid: Is that your medical opinion?

Kaleb: That’s my “fuck you” opinion.

Kaleb’s girlfriend has brought some medicine from the clinic to treat Kaleb. Kaleb takes two pills. Kalid asks for a pill and Kaleb tells him to get his own girlfriend if he wants to get over the flu. Kalid makes the noise again and Kaleb kicks him out.

The next day both guys make a full recovery and Kaleb makes good on all of the punches he promised. To this day it is still not clear how Kaleb could take pride in being “sicker” than Kalid, but if you ask him about those harrowing days on the couch he will always say the same thing, “Thank God I don’t have to hear that fucking noise again.”

A Love Letter To My Bank Account

Hey baby,

            How are you doing? Is Wells Fargo treating you okay? I sure hope so because I know I haven’t been the best companion lately. I can feel you slipping away and I know I was in the wrong. I only wish it could be like back in the good old days.

            I remember the first time I was introduced to you like it was just yesterday. The bank teller had the nerve to say that you “came with a Frisbee”. I might have thrown a stapler in his face if not for banks being notoriously intolerant to random, and admittedly violent, outbursts (fascists). I let his indiscretion go because I knew he didn’t see what I saw in you Sugar Waffles. I may have only been 16 but you made me feel like a man.

            I left the bank that day with your digits in my pocket and I Spartan kicked that Frisbee in half*. Before it all went to “Roses” (the Andre 3000 variety) our relationship was roses (the garden variety**). I’d enter you (with my check card) and you’d explode (with cash) leaving us both satisfied. As far as puppy love goes, Michael Vick would have a hard time not gushing at our new relationship.

            Of course, no relationship is without its issues. The first time I bought a car I asked a lot from you. In fact, I asked more from you than you had to offer and it nearly tore us apart. I had invested so much in the beginning of our relationship that I assumed minor contributions would be enough down the line. That was stupid of me.

            Sure, I’ve tried my best to keep you happy. I got direct deposit because I wanted you to know I’m willing to give you that double “D” for instant gratification. Even though I’m not much for “internet relations” I even opened up an online banking account just so you were always a mouse click away. But getting closer to you was never the solution was it?

            Ever since I got to college, you’ve turned on me Honey Boo. It’s gotten to the point where I’m scared just to look at you. I’ve already addressed my shortcomings as a paramour but please try to bear with me Candy Gams. I’m still trying to figure out what being an adult is and sometimes that means forgetting that you’re in my life.

            I promise that from now on I will try to consider what I’m doing to you when I buy a video game, or go out to fancy restaurants (Applebee’s after 9 p.m.). All I ask is that you stick with me through this turbulent time. I truly believe that there will come a day when I give to you significantly more than you give me, and when that day comes, we’ll break out the 401KY and celebrate. But until that day could you please stop saying such hurtful things to me***?

 Sincerely, Kalid “Bojangles” Mohammed

 P.S. Sorry that the three way with the credit card didn’t work out.

 * I tried to and pulled a muscle but who wants to hear about a failed Spartan kick?

** Didn’t realize the second meaning to that until after I’d written it. I still feel smart.

*** Ex: “Insufficient funds”, “Overdraft”, etc…

4 Reasons why my car full of bottle rockets is depressing

            One of my favorite scenes in the cult comedy “Hot Rod” is when one of the characters says that he found a bag of fireworks in the bathroom. Without any further explanation they end up in a parking lot lighting those bad boys up. I love that scene because it’s random, pointless, and fun. I have actual fireworks in my car that I could shoot off too, but I don’t. And let me tell you, that fucking sucks. There are a million reasons shooting off fireworks in my early twenties should be fun, but I know of at least four reasons why it’s depressing as shit.

#1.  None of my friends seem to want to

            It’s weird to even have to say it but it’s true. My friends would rather do nothing than go somewhere and fire off bottle rockets. I’m not trying to say that they don’t usually have better things to do (homework, work, supposedly girls) but it’s not like every minute of their day is accounted for either. We have had several hours where we have been reduced to playing “Fifa 12” for lack of anything else to do. But even on those lazy Sundays when the weather beckons us to fire off these less than subtle tributes to manhood, they’re still reluctant.

            That’s a really sad thought for me. Now ladies I’m only speaking to the fellas here because I ain’t got no uterus (I’m pretty sure) but there was a time in my life where someone offering to let me shoot off fireworks was tantamount to a gift from God. Which brings me to my next point…

#2. Something as awesome as bottle rockets can lose their appeal

            I know initially that a statement like this doesn’t come off as revelatory, but really think about it for a second. I understand how things like video games can lose their appeal; doing any task repetitively for long enough will lose its charm and that’s understandable. But I’m not talking about something you do everyday, I’m talking about fireworks here. The lighting of explosives is not an everyday occurrence. The majority of friends I had growing up didn’t even have fireworks outside of July.

            So why is it that something that blows the fuck up, was highly regulated in your childhood, and is unanimously considered awesome, not done more often? I refuse to believe that it’s as simple an answer as “they’re meant for kids” because that’s bullshit. If the concept of watching things explode was exclusively for kids, then movies like “The Matrix” really fucked up with that “R” rating. It’s insane really that I even have to argue for shooting off fireworks, primarily because…

#3. I feel stupid for suggesting we shoot off fireworks

            This one earns the daily double for simultaneously depressing and pissing me off. I’ll sit in a room with friends watching an infomercial about bathroom cleaner and think to myself “Well shit, shooting off fireworks definitely sounds better than this.” Of course, I do suggest that we shoot off fireworks and I get a chorus of hesitant grumbles. And I feel dumb as shit for even suggesting it. I get that people feel dumb when anything they suggest gets turned down but that’s just the mild feeling associated with any rejection. I’m talking about feeling genuinely incompetent for even proposing we do something as childish as fire off bottle rockets.

            At some point, advocating for fireworks became some kind of declaration of me as a person. It’s like there’s some delicate ecosystem of acceptable recreational activities and fireworks are the wild card that causes people to see you in footie pajamas. I’m willing to admit that I’m not as mature as many people my age (if my blog doesn’t already say that about me) but I’m also a (mostly) college educated man who hasn’t been reduced to trading sexual favors for hot pockets (that’s my plan B). I’m an average male who, when faced with the option of doing nothing and shooting fireworks, will always choose fireworks. Which brings me to the most depressing point of them all…

#4. Doing nothing is becoming more enjoyable than shooting fireworks

            Right now, I feel like the last crusader in a world where fireworks are about as fun as a prostate exam. It’s not just fireworks though, it seems people are more in favor of doing nothing than ever before. For fuck’s sake Bruno Mars made a whole song dedicated to being a lazy slob. At some point (post-high school it seems) doing nothing became the most desirable recreational activity we could come up with.

            I can only attest to college kids but I do have friends who went straight into work after high school who would vouch for this; with legitimate schedules that we are now accountable for, the idea of not having to do something just sounds so fucking great. That reasoning is fine, until not having to do something becomes not wanting to do anything.

           Maybe depressing is too strong a word for my fireworks issue, but it’s certainly a sad thought. Even at this point, I can see myself not indulging in something as frivolous as fireworks a year from now.  This isn’t a call to arms to reclaim our youth, there’s a time and a place for that (our youth) and we owe it to the world to do more than just shoot off fireworks all the time. But the next time you’re looking forward to just an hour or two of not having to do something, there’s a 98 corolla full of fireworks just waiting to get lit.

A letter to the seven-year-old-girl I almost punched out

Dear 7-year-old girl,

            You don’t know how close I came to punching you the other day. Like if there was a unit of measurement for judging how close someone was to punching someone else, let’s call them puchometers, I would have been .02 punchometers away from bringing the pain.  You should know right off the bat that I normally don’t get angry to the point of violence with people, especially when they’re girls, more especially when they’re seven, and even more especiallyer when they’re related to me.

            That’s right sis, I’m talking to you.  You may be wondering “what could I, a seven year old girl, have done to nearly get an uppercut from a 22 year old man?” to which I would say, “Stop saying how old everyone is!” After that, I would tell you it was about how you spurned my attempt at connecting with you and the rest of our miscellaneous siblings.

            I had finally waited long enough that you kids were able to appreciate a keepsake of mine, my Lando Calrissian* action figure. I had it all planned, I gathered all three or four of you in the living room, played that oh so famous “Colt 45” commercial starring a gracefully aged Lando (or if you prefer his stage name, Billy Dee Williams) and when you were all mesmerized by his smooth-talking, colt-peddling, candor I would reveal Lando in all of his action figure glory!

            Instead of getting showers of praise from little children like I’m used to, I got a rousing sound of dissent from my own little Che Guevara**.  You were so quick to bash Lando and everything he’s done for his Galaxy that you didn’t realize your mouth was signing a check that your seven-year-old ass couldn’t cash.

            This shouldn’t surprise me though; we’ve always stood on pretty hostile ground. From the day you were brought home from the hospital and I told dad that you looked like a hedgehog, to the first sentence you could ever formulate being “Quit calling me a hedgehog!” we have had our ups and downs (almost entirely down).  But when you came after Lando the way you did, that went way beyond blood feuds into something I actually care about.

            Your initial discontent with the subject matter was understandable (i.e. you not having any taste in anything cool, ever) and I was more than willing to make my case for Lando, but you had to come out of the gate guns blazing. “Nobody cares about your Lando Smooth toy!” you said with the incompetence of a thousand Justin Bieber fans. You may think this was what caused me to want to literally punch you into the ground like Donkey Kong in “Super Smash Bros.” but that was merely the inciting incident.

            By this point I was doing everything I could to keep my cool (counting to ten, remembering what child abuse laws this state had, etc…) and I tried to reason with you. Unfortunately, “Check yourself Hedgehog!” didn’t get my point across as well as I’d hoped. My bad. So I’ll make my points a little more eloquently now. First of all, it’s Lando Calrissian, I literally told you his name thirty seconds before you started spouting off like a broken teapot (zing!). I honestly don’t know where the name “Lando Smooth” came from and frankly, if you hadn’t used it in such a spiteful way it could have been a badass nickname for me. Second of all, nobody cared? I’m pretty sure both the artistically subtle malt-liquor ad and the awe inspirer that is my Lando action figure stunned everyone else in the room. Third of all, it’s a fucking action figure not a toy.

            Surprisingly, I was willing to forgive a girl only a third my age for mouthing off. But you tasted blood with that first act of retarded ranting and you just couldn’t help yourself, could you? Oh no, you had to make this a competition. “Pippi Longstocking is waaaaay better than Lando Smooth!” you said, breaking the heart of the only person who’d let you play with silverware at nine months (out of love).

            I’m sure you didn’t get too many articulate points from me muttering “Pippi fucking Longstocking?” over and over while I bit my knuckles (so they could avoid your face) so I want to explain myself now. Pippi is a terrible role model; I did some research*** and found out that she “frequently mocks and dupes adults she encounters”, that’s so you (and maybe Raven).  Also, she’s strong enough to lift a horse, which honestly I see as more of a danger than a benefit, but it’s impressive nonetheless. Now let me tell you a little bit about my hero.

            As a strong jawed, devastatingly handsome, black man (in case you forgot what I look like) I didn’t have many characters I could identify with in science fiction growing up. Until I found Lando Calrissian that is! As Baron Administrator of Cloud City, Lando was like Barack Obama, Will Smith, and the Black Power Ranger all rolled into one. Also, did I mention he had a cape? So he’s like Batman too.

            And if you’d bother to just be cool already, you’d know that he owned the Millennium Falcon first. Just like rock and roll, black folks were doing their thang before a white guy came and made it “cool” (whatever that means to George Lucas). What was Pippi doing? Going on record as having the strength of “ten policemen” that’s what! How do you even find something like that out? Is she assaulting our boys in blue? Is that who you look up to?

            Anyways, I’ve been told by a surprisingly large number of people, that almost beating the nickelodeon out of a seven-year-old might have been an overreaction. Now that I’ve had time to really think about it, maybe Pippi does for you what Lando did for me, by giving you someone to identify with. The more I read about that precocious little ginger, the more I see a bit of you in her (not the ginger bit). So yeah maybe Pippi isn’t all bad, and maybe you can suck it the fuck up and admit that “Lando Smooth” is ballin’ as shit.

Sincerely,

Kalid “Roundhouse” Mohammed

P.S. Dad is telling me that you can’t (and aren’t allowed to) read a lot of these words so I’ll save this letter, and my absolute rage, for when you’re old enough to appreciate it.

*Lando Calrissian is a character in Star Wars. Why don’t you know that?

** I was going to read his book, but they had to make two movies based off that book and not even for the money like Twilight. It’s just that long.

*** Wikipedia

How I convinced Michael Bay to stop Michael Bay

The year is 1979. I’m standing on a cliff above crashing waves.  I’m standing there with a gun in my hand. It’s a small gun, but not to the point that I’m emasculated by it. Okay I’m a little emasculated by it, but what do I know about guns?

“Mrmmhmmh” the crumpled body next to me starts mumbling. Oh did I forget to mention that I kidnapped a fourteen-year-old Michael Bay? Yeah, I totally did that.

“Welcome to the Thunderdome, bitch!” I say in the loudest, most triumphant voice I can. 

“What?” said the future antichrist of the film world.

“Oh yeah, ‘Mad Max’ isn’t a movie yet.” I say trying to keep a mental catalogue of which movie catchphrases I could technically invent.

“What are you talking about? What are we doing here?”

“Whoa whoa whoa Mr.Bay, I’ll be the one asking the questions around here.  Actually, that doesn’t make much sense because I kidnapped you and all. Okay you can ask the questions but just be careful what you ask, because you can’t handle the truth!” I replied in as close to a Jack Nicholson impression as I could muster (It’s a cross between Tilda Swinton and a Cat in labor).

“Who are you?” He asked checking the back of his head for wounds.

“That’s not important. All you need to really know about me is that I’m not from here.”

“Like you’re from out of state?” He asked doing his best to get back that shit eating grin that he’s apparently been cultivating for years.

“I suppose I could give you some existential answer to that question, but I don’t like you and you don’t like me so—“

“You don’t like me?” He asked with a look so stupid I just had to back hand him.

I looked around at the empty space around us, the cold unrelenting death below us, and then back at young Bay “Are you serious? I followed you around for like three hours, I waited till you were alone, and then I paid this kid to knock you out and put you in my van. Of course I don’t like you.”

“Somebody from my school helped you kidnap me?”

“Shit yeah dude. At first nobody knew who I was talking about when I asked about you, but then some dude said ‘Oh hey you looking for Gay Bay?’ which, full disclosure, I don’t find that clever. But hey, it’s a different time so what do I know.” I replied while peeing in a way that I knew would form a trail right up to Bay’s still crumpled body (seriously, he’s not even tied up or anything. He’s just lying there.)

“A different time? Are you from the future?”

“Damn you’re quick. I can’t believe you’re the same guy that thought a ‘Mountain Dew’ vending machine shooting cans at people was a good idea. Wait is ‘Mountain Dew’ a thing yet?”

“I make vending machines that shoot things in the future?” He asked with the faintest glint of excitement in his serial killer eyes.

“You wish you were that cool. You’re a director Michael. A really, really, really shitty director.” I replied, saying what millions of fanboys have wanted to say to this smug fuck for nearly two decades.

“Am I really that bad?” He replied, his douchebag ego deflated by like, the narrowest of margins.

“I could sit here and go through the list of crimes you have committed in my time but I’ve been told by many other, better, movies that you shouldn’t know too much about your own future. That’s why I’ll only bother you with your most recent and heinous crime.” I said, fixing my murderous eyes upon the man who would destroy millions of childhoods.

Michael swallowed nervously, recognizing said murder in my eyes “What did I do?” he asked just as my pee stream reached him.

“A few years from now a comic book series is going to come out called ‘Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles’, I feel like the title does a good enough job explaining what it’s about so I won’t. This comic will eventually become an animated series, a few live action movies, and then a few more animated series’.  I’ll admit it’s not exactly Hemingway level subject matter, but those four Turtles won the hearts and minds of children everywhere.

“You, being an adult when the series even reaches popularity have no attachment to the characters and I get that. What I don’t get is why you have to shit on it like you’re going to do!”

“Why are you screaming at me?” he blubbered, his blatantly offensive blonde locks getting drenched with tears.

I regained composure “My screaming is the least of your worries.” I said waving the gun back and forth hoping he wouldn’t notice how small it was and think I was a pussy.

“So what? I made a movie about these guys?”

“Well, not yet. At least not yet in my time.” I replied while reaching into my pocket for things to throw at him (because fuck him, that’s why).

“You’re going to kill me over a movie you haven’t even seen yet?” He asked trying (and failing) to avoid the “Optimus Prime” action figure I’d just whipped at him (I’m a sucker for irony).

“Wrong on both accounts Mr. Bay.” I said, trying to stifle a laugh at the bump already developing on his forehead “First of all, I won’t ever watch it. Partially because your track record would suggest that at least three minorities will be insulted in your movie, and mostly because you’re not making the main characters mutants but aliens. At least with your last project you stayed somewhat faithful to the source material. This abomination you’re so dead set on making though, it’s just- - you have to die.” I said watching him pee himself.

“So then you are going to kill me?”

“That’s the second thing, I’m no killer. But you, future killer of dreams, standards, and quality movie going experiences, are more than up to the task.”

“You want me to kill myself?” He asked, still peeing in his pants.

“I came back to this time specifically because any time after this you will already be headed down the path to being a director. This is your crossroads, you still suck, but you just barely don’t suck enough to know what you have to do. If young Hitler knew what he was going to be responsible for as an adult, I think he’d do it.” I said, already regretting comparing Hitler to someone as terrible as Michael Bay.

Michael slowly stands up his pants dripping with his, and my own, urine. He stands over the cliffs edge and looks down for one long contemplative minute.

“Do it Michael” I say “Do it for America.”

“Did I ever do anything good for the world?” He asks pleading with me.

“Well, you made a couple movies where Will Smith says ‘fuck’ a lot but Martin Lawrence was in them too so that’s a wash.”

“I don’t know who either of those people are.”

“Never mind, it doesn’t matter anymore.” I say, beckoning him towards the crashing waves below.

A single tear goes down his weirdly angled face, he turns around and looks at me “Tell my parents I love them.”

“No” I say, while making a “jerking off” motion with my left hand as I train the gun on him with my other hand “Now jump you pussy, I’ve gotta stop by Helen Mirren’s place while she’s still hot.”

Michael turns back to look at the current again, and just as he’s about to leap into the abyss, I wake up. I guess in the end, if the only way to keep a shitty movie from being made is by time traveling 40 years and convincing a fourteen-year-old to jump off a cliff, then maybe we should all just accept that a shitty movie is going to be made.

A letter to the girl who stood me up at the Jason Mraz concert

Dear Girl,

I won’t give you the honor of naming you because it is a widely held belief (by me) that anyone that bests me is automatically famous. You don’t deserve fame. You may be asking yourself why I have chosen the blog medium to address you. You may also be asking yourself why I waited nearly four years to air my grievances. The short and sweet is that I’m a coward, and shut up.

Yes it was the summer of our senior year in high school when you caught my eye. I don’t know if it was how sexy you looked in your company approved beige khakis, or the way you managed to both text and arouse me at the same time,  but it wasn’t long into the sultry days of June before I courted you. 

Being the suave Lothario that I was, I did what any self respecting player would do when he finds his next game piece, I asked you to go shopping with me. In my defense the vast majority of my relationship knowledge comes from Clueless (The show not the movie. What am I 25?) It was a glorious day of walking from store to store in that outdoor mall.  You gave dirty looks to everyone walking into “Hot Topic” while I asked for spare twenty dollar bills from people leaving “Brooks Brothers”.

Eventually we made our way to “Express Men” where I showcased my masculinity in the testosteroniest way I could fathom (which amounted to little more than trying on Bermuda Shorts and Polo’s.) Needless to say, love was born in that Express. Or so I thought (dun! dun! duuuunnnnnnnnnn!)

I, being a normal human being, did what any normal human being would do if they found something enjoyable. I asked you if you would like to do something like this again. At this point you were left with the decision of saying yes or no. In hindsight I should have realized that monosyllabic responses were difficult for you as the majority of our first date consisted of guttural noises (the stupid caveman kind, not the fun kind). Of course nobody is perfect and I mistook your “yes” for a, well, a yes.

In retrospect asking you to go to a Jason Mraz concert was a really ballsy move. In my humble opinion, he offers a catchy and refreshing alternative to the synth/bass/autotune minutia that is music today. In my other opinion, he did a song with Colbie “I-refuse-to-check-the-spelling” Cailat  so he can defend himself.

The point I’m trying to make is, that even at this point you were left with a reasonable opportunity to alter or even cancel the date. You could have said that concerts give you headaches, or that Jason Mraz killed your fucking parents for all I care.

What you should not have done was agree to go to the concert, have me purchase the ticket, and then never respond to my phone calls  ever again. Call it my ego (or lack thereof), but I was convinced that something bad must have happened to you and not the much sadder truth that you were blowing me off (that phrase can mean two drastically different things). I asked friends of friends, I texted you, and I even sent you messages on facebook (that’s alot of work for my generation).

I was just about to start assembling the fifty man search party/candlelight vigil when you changed your profile picture. That’s not much of a death knell sure, but in that one act you confirmed two things. First, that you were not in fact kidnapped by a pack of roving land pirates (vikings?) or trapped between a rock formation slowly hacking your arm off (dare to dream), but rather you were perfectly fine. The second thing I had to accept was that if you were in fact not kidnapped, and you still owned both arms (tragically) that you simply did not want to date me.

So there I was. Seventeen and stood up. And there you were, all changing your profile picture in that uniquely bitchy way that only you can pull off. Lucky for me, my pride would not let me break down in light of this revelation. I bit my lower lip and moved on.

“But Kalid” you might ask in that squealing door hinge of a voice of yours, “If you got over it then why are you writing me this mean yet entirely accurate letter?” And to that I would say to you “First of all, shut up.” And then I would high five the nearest pedestrian who in this scenario would be a grizzled cop who just lost his partner in a gun fight but was significantly uplifted by that wicked burn I sent your way. After that I would tell you that while I seek no answers from you as to why you pulled a balloon boy on me (except without a balloon, which makes it worse), I do seek the money I lost on the ticket I purchased for you.

It’s bad enough that I have it on my banking records that I bought a Jason Mraz concert ticket, but to have bought two tickets? I might as well start wearing flip flops to restaurants! Now I’m no mathematician (cuz nerds suck) but I do know a little thing about interest. Enough to know that even though it cost less before it will cost you significantly more now. That being said, I expect either $300 or a ticket to Lollapalooza.

Sincerely, Kalid “Robocop 2” Mohammed

P.S. Can you please deliver the money/ticket in those khaki’s for old times sake?

This Dan O'Brien: Too Many Words Devoted to Malcolm in the Middle