I'm Matt Champagne. Watch me type things at you.
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“SPEAK UP, GUYS.”
Killing time between two cancelled shows in Claremont last month, I’m flanked by two different conversations in a bar. On my right, two guys talking about gold futures, economic freedom and Fox News. On my left, two guys talking about the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Seriously.
I wish I could cancel both these conversations the way both of my shows will be cancelled tonight. At this point I only know one of them has been cancelled, but, now that I look back on it—even using the present tense—I should know that getting shoehorned between two of the most unappealing exchanges in the history of talking is the biggest, doomiest omen for what can only be a rough, disappointing night ahead. I’m by myself (because that’s my jam) and right as I sit down I hear them, so right as I hear them I know I’m in a place where the sun don’t shine; it’s that dark. But we’re all so close—the five of us, though we’re not together—that I can’t not hear. I take my 2007 Tréo out and transcribe them as best I can: the guys on my left and the guys on my right, back and forth, a little here, a little there.
***
On my left: “Jesus told them to pray. And that’s what they did.
On my right: “Now I make a hundred thousand dollars a year.”
On my left: “The Holy Spirit is everywhere.”
On my right: “I love Fox News. It’s like, you can’t escape it.”
On my left: “The Father’s acceptance of me has absolutely nothing to do with how I perform.”
On my right: “So now they’re just another welfare drain on the government.”
On my left: “No one would argue that Jesus didn’t have the Holy Spirit in him when he started his ministry.”
On my right: “Why would someone invest in a company that wasn’t trying to maximize profits? Why would I invest in that?”
On my left: “And the oncoming Rapture is certainly one way of looking at that.”
On my right: “And the next Meltdown is gonna be an example of that.”
On my left: “And the sinners among us will know what we mean but only when it’s too late for them.”
On my right: “I don’t give anything to charity at all. I hate charity. I don’t like giving something for nothing.”
***
Here’s the thing: Both of these conversations? Deeply religious.
I remain
Champagne
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AN OPEN LETTER TO MODELS WHO WANNA TRY STAND-UP
Hey, pretty women! Sorry to take you away from touching up your headshots, buying underwear and banging your boyfriends, but I understand that some of you wanna try stand-up! Cool! Go for it. Slink those perfectly proportioned hips onto that stage, grab that mike with those meticulously moisturized, lily-white hands and let her rip, girl. But before you go where many models have fleetingly and half-heartedly gone before, how would you like some tips from a guy who doesn’t even make his living at stand-up comedy and is quite sexually inadequate? Great! Here they are:
* Don’t talk about how tough it is to get a date.
Seriously. Don’t do it. We know the second you walk on stage that you’re a model. We can all see it. We also know—and I mean know—that the first thing you’re gonna talk about is how hard it is to get a date. How do we know that? Because every model before you who’s tried stand-up comedy has talked about it. The second I see an inappropriately pretty girl on a stand-up comedy stage, I look down at my watch and count the seconds before she takes out a violin to guide us through the trials and tribulations of not being able to find a dude. It’s almost as if you guys went to The Academy Of Stand-Up Comedy For Models and got told by some jag-off that the key to connecting to an audience is talking about how tough it is to be beautiful and single. In the words of fellow comic Robert Yasamura: “If you’re a model and you’re having a tough time getting a date, ask someone.”
* Talk about how pretty you are.
Seriously. Do it. Tell jokes about how great it is to be hot. Make jokes about how sweet your life is because of how beautiful you are. I’m serious. Make jokes about all the places you travel to because you’re hot, all the people you get to meet because you’re hot, all the things you get to do because of the way you look. In fact, the first thing you say into that mike should be this: “Hello, ugly people! What’s it like to not be pretty?” Talk about how pretty you are and talk about how pretty you know you are. And then talk about how pretty the audience isn’t compared to you. I would honestly find that hilarious. If a model did that as her act, it would completely turn me around.
* Admit that the only reason you’re doing stand-up comedy is because it’s an assignment from your acting teacher.
We’ll know where you stand if you tell us this. We’ll also know that you’ll be quitting after two more weeks and such information will be greatly appreciated. If you’re sleeping with your acting teacher—as many models do—admit that too. (That reminds me: I should become an acting teacher.)
* Don’t tell your guy friend who comes with you to the open mike that you’re not gonna fuck him.
Oh, there’s no way you’re gonna sleep with him, but don’t ever let him know that. Because if it weren’t for him, no one would be laughing at your stories of how grueling it is to hang out at the Playboy Mansion. Keep him guessing. Keep him around. You’ll eventually quit stand-up, but you’ll still need him to help you move into your acting teacher’s house.
* Contact me at your earliest convenience for further, intimate one-on-one advice. Make it quick though because you’ll be quitting soon.
I remain
Champagne
AN OPEN LETTER TO THAT GUY AT SEPULVEDA AND BURBANK
Okay. What is it? What’s your secret? I wanna know.
You are forty-seven. You are sitting in what appears to be a 1968 Toyota 2000 GT Convertible. You are waiting for the red light to stop being red so you can go. You are smoking a cigarette. You are listening to “Ship of Fools” by Robert Plant. It’s really loud. You know all the words. And right at the first break after the first chorus, you raise your hands high to air guitar the solo. And never has the term air guitar been more apropos, for your hands are quite airborne, sir, lifted up against the dark of night, your fingers twitching in time to this song you love way too much, your cigarette clamped tight in your shit-eating grin of a mouth.
How the hell are you so happy? In the Valley, too? What did you do? Who are you?
I just came from taping a podcast where I talked about nothing but my fears for an hour, and here you are: the least fearful man on the planet. In fact, I’d be so bold as to say you are fear-free. When that light goes green, your good cheer will lift your vintage car off the street and send it sailing into the black sky. Any man as happy as you has no need for roads. What you’re high on I gotta get on.
This all sounds like a come-on, don’t it? Sounds like I got a crush, doesn’t? Look: I don’t wanna have sex with you, but I do wanna have sex with your happiness! I envy your happiness! That’s all I know! If that’s what a crush is, then I guess I got one. You’re the happiest thing I’ve seen in weeks, man. Jeez. I just re-read everything I’ve written so far and, what the hell is this? A goddamned missed connection? Now I’m thinking about what I would’ve said if I had had the courage to make small talk. “Excuse me…uh…what kind of car is that?” And then you would’ve been like: “What?” And then I’m all: “You car it’s…nice. What kind is it?” And then you’d tell me and look all annoyed. And then I’d be desperate and try again with: “Is that Led Zeppelin?” And you’d scoff at me and go: “Robert Plant” and then the light would go green and you’d be gone.
I bet my small talk with you would’ve been just as bumbling as my small talk with any strange attractive woman; I can’t even have good small talk with people I don’t wanna fuck.
I remain
Champagne
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I GOT THREE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-FIVE POSTS, BUT A JOB AIN’T ONE.
And that’s it. That’s a year. August 5, 2010 I started blogging in earnest here on Tumblr. Once a day, at least three hundred words a day. Three hundred words a day ain’t a lot. I don’t think so. When I missed a day, I would write two for the next day to make up for it. Just wanted to see if I could do it. And looks I did it. “You gonna turn all that into a book?” a friend asked me. “No,” I immediately said. “No. I’m not.” There’s no plot, no through-line. Other than all of them being written by me, the posts largely don’t have much in common. As I look back on the thee hundred and sixty-five posts from the past year, I do notice this: my acting career took a hit. Maybe if I had fucked around a little less with my stupid blog, I would’ve booked some new acting work. With the exception of a small part in a friend’s low-budget movie I shot in Detroit near Christmas time, I didn’t book one new job. In the year I’ve been doing this blog, I earned money from old ones, but booked no new ones (other than that Detroit one). And why is this the first time I’ve thought about that? Why is this the first time I’m drawing a correlation between the two? Do I really think that the devotion to this “Remain Champagne” Tumblr blog had nothing to do with the fact that I haven’t booked a commercial in a year? Do I really think that it’s just a coincidence that while I insisted on posting at least three hundred words a day for a year I was also not getting hired to do the thing I’ve been doing to support myself for over fifteen years now? How could I not see that? I got three hundred and sixty-five posts, but a job ain’t one.
So, no more of this blogging every day thing. And my posts haven’t even been showing up in my Tumblr dashboard lately anyway. I’ll click “Create Post” and the blog will appear on my own private page, but sometimes will take an entire day to appear on the public dashboard. I knew it was time to stop when I found myself in earnest email correspondence with Tumblr tech support to address this problem. I was like: “Am I really having a back and forth with the nice people of Tumblr tech support because my precious blog posts aren’t appearing with the speed I’ve come to expect?” I should be having backs and forths like this with my agents, not Tumble tech support.
So, no more of this every day stuff. I’ve gotta live and survive and no one’s gonna help me do that. As I look back on the first post from a year ago, August 5, 2010, it was about how I don’t get as much sleep as I want. It was called “A Good Eight.” And I just re-read it and nothing has changed. In the year since writing it, I’ve tried Ambien and Melatonin to see if anything got different and things got different enough for me to never wanna try that shit again.
It was a cool little discipline, but I need to focus on my livelihood. Most of my creative energy is gonna go towards writing for stand-up and staying an actor. I guess if you wanna experience my writing more often, you’ll have to come out and see me do comedy shows around L.A. instead of reading my stuff in your undies. And thanks for reading it at all, if you have been reading it at all. And if you have been reading it in your undies, do put some clothes on. And if you do come out to see me do a show, wear more than just your undies.
(Fellow Tumblr-ites: If the pattern of the last few days stays its course, this blog won’t appear on your dashboard for about twenty-four hours.)
(Also: To find an appropriate picture for today’s post, I Googled “Pictures Of One Year.” I saw a bunch of birthday candles and commemorative, glittering icons shining forth. But mixed in with these bright, celebratory images that signify an entire year of accomplishment, was this shot:
Yup.
I remain
Champagne
BOSS DOG
So let’s talk about that dog: It’s at a party and so are you and it’s being a pain in not only your ass, but everyone’s asses. It keeps jumping up on you, on everyone, humping you, licking you, barking constantly, every five seconds it loses its memory of whatever has just happened so it’s in a perpetual state of crazed wonder, and everyone’s yelling “No!” at it repeatedly, hoping it will stop ruining life. The dog is taking complete focus over everyone’s day and it’s simply exhausting to be around. And then, it happens. The Owner steps forward not to do the thing everyone’s hoping he’s gonna do, which is to place the dog in a large catapult and launch it into another zip code, but rather to say this:
“He’s just showing who’s boss.”
And he says it for the benefit of everyone there. As if that explanation—“He’s just showing who’s boss.”—will explain everything and make it okay that there’s this little creature figuratively—if you’re lucky—shitting on everyone’s good time.
You hear that a lot from dog owners who defend their dogs. “Oh, he’s just showing who’s boss.”
Oh. Is he? You know what? I should’ve picked up on that myself actually. Because now that I think of it, there are many boss-like qualities to your dog’s behavior. It won’t mind its own business, it’s making sexual advances on everyone’s leg, it’s desperate for attention, and sticks its tongue out while making direct, unyielding eye contact with you. All traits that more than a few bosses have exhibited, I’m sure.
I’ve never been in a jungle, but I have been in a home where the pets are in charge. I would compare it to a zoo, but zoos are actually run by people, not the animals.
But since your dog is the boss and not you, tell it to get me my coat ‘cause I’m outta here.
I remain
Champagne
AN OPEN LETTER TO THE TEN PEOPLE WHO JUST UNFOLLOWED ME ON TWITTER
Hey, guys! I don’t wanna take up too much of your time, what with how busy y’all are with…all the shit you guys do! You’re all probably swamped with tasks and errands and what-not. Some of you are clearly robots, in which case you definitely have a lot of stuff to do, like follow people on Twitter, leave an ad under the Mention tab and then immediately unfollow them. That’s time consuming. Some of you have your own business who follow someone, leave an ad under the Mention tab and then immediately unfollow them. That’s a grind. Some of you are people I know, people I occasionally see out and about. That’s weird. I’ll never bring it up when I see you though. And I mean never. I promise. You’re welcome.
Some of my tweets from the past few days have been pretty shitty, granted. Let’s go through some that are really freakin’ horrible:
—“Oh, everyone calls you a baller, huh? I can’t wait to never hang out with you.”
The snarky tone of this tweet is pitch-perfect: it precisely captures that judgmental, eye-rolling, negatively critical angle that seem absolutely imperative to being a comic on Twitter. Maybe that’s why it got no response. Maybe people are so completely sick of this sound that they can’t bear to hear it anymore. In which case, my bad. You know what else makes Twitter comics snarkily roll their eyes and unfollow people? The phrase: “My bad.”
—“Stop using ‘needy’ as a negative. We’re all needy. For example: People who say they’re not needy clearly need to suck it.”
Kinda whiny, ain’t it? Anything that sounds like it could’ve been written by a model/actress instead of a comedian (or someone trying to be a comedian) is gonna get you unfollowed by people. And, hell, you might not get booked on that cool show you can’t get booked on anyway.
—“The next time someone starts talking about their wicker class, I’m gonna keep interrupting them with: ‘WICKA WHUT?! WICKA WHO?!’”
Maybe people don’t know what a wicker class is. Maybe when you take a class on how to make wicker chairs, they’re not called “wicker classes.” I thought the image of me listening to someone’s boring story about learning how to wicker and then all of a sudden breaking in with “WICKA WHUT?! WICKA WHO?!” might be funny. But not at all. You guys are right to unfollow.
—“Irony: When your video store has all six of their copies of the film ‘Just Go With It.’”
I remember almost putting something like: “Looks like the customers of that video store are just not going with it” or something obvious like that. But I think any failed movie with huge stars in it with a title like “Just Go With It” is its own joke. (I’m. Going. To. Die.)
—“You know, in a couple days she’s gonna be Gamy Winehouse.”
I tweeted that on the day she died and it got me unfollowed by a veritable princess of the comedy movement on Twitter. Someone with hundreds of thousands of folowers, who writes comedy pieces for magazines that—you know—publish comedy pieces, someone who prides herself on contributing to intelligent humor instead of crass, bass, lowbrow comedy. And I regret the joke in no way whatsoever.
I remain
Champagne
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HELLO, NORMAN.
The most productive thing I did today was help an old man walk into The House of Pies. You know, now that I type that, if I really wanted to help him, I should’ve walked him away from the House of Pies. But he’s waving me over and he’s all: “Excuse me.” And this is the second time in two weeks that an old person has asked me to help them move. Not change residences. To physically move their bodies. Once on Ivar a couple of weeks ago, I pulled a man out of his car and into a wheelchair. His hand felt like thick tree bark. And today, a nice guy named Norman is leaning against his car (shit, he didn’t drive, did he?) in front of the House of Pies and asks me to walk him to the door because he ain’t stable. “Could you help me to the door?” he asks. “Sure,” I say. I’m on my way to the post office with a Netflix envelope and a gas bill. I take him by the hand, he leans on me and I ask his name. “Norman,” he says. Hosting lots of comedy shows has done this thing to me where when I meet people now I ask their name fairly early on which I don’t think I used to do before I was doing stand-up. You have to constantly connect to people in stand-up. What a pain. Such a pain in the ass. “Shit, I gotta connect with these people?” “Norman,” he says. “I’m Matt,” I say. Whenever I tell an old person my name, I always feel like I have to explain it. “Matt. Like, short for Matthew.” I always feel like they’re not familiar with the name Matt and it needs explaining. I said that to this one old guy once. I was like: “Matt. Like, short for Matthew, you know?” And he was all: “Yeah, yeah, I get it. Matt. There are a ton of yous.” So I walk Norman into the House of Pies and I walk him to a booth. I almost said to him: “You know, you should get a cane,” but that ain’t my business really. Not really. We should all get canes. “You good?” I asked him as he collapsed into the booth. “Yes. Thank you so much. That was very nice of you.” “Nice to meet you,” I say. “Very nice to meet you,” he said.
And that was it.
Then I walked one point eight-four miles to where I parked my car the night before because I didn’t wanna drive home. Had Norman been around then, I would’ve asked him for a lift.
I remain
Champagne
I DON’T COUNT.
I do push-ups. (“No, you don’t.”) Yup. (“Really?”) If I don’t accomplish anything with my day, I’ll do push-ups to feel like I’ve accomplished something with my day. But even if I do accomplish something with my day, I’ll do push-ups anyway. And I do ‘em, man. Here’s how I do push-ups. (“Wait. Where do you do them?”) In my apartment. (“No. Where on your body do you do push-ups? Because I see nothing different about you physically.”) Shut up. (“Sorry. Continue.”) I do them without counting. I do them until I physically can’t do them anymore. If it’s all about some number, then the destination becomes more important than the journey and isn’t that a bad thing? Aren’t people always saying: “It ain’t the destination. It’s the journey, bro”? (”My destination is the end of this blog.”) So here’s what I do: I start doing push-ups and count like this: “Five hundred and forty-seven trillion, six hundred and twenty-seven billion, nine hundred and seventy-nine million, four hundred and sixty-three thousand, one hundred and fourteen. One hundred and eleven trillion, five hundred and eighty-six billion, three hundred and seventy million, five hundred and ninety-two thousand, eight hundred and forty.” Et cetera. And I do that until I don’t known what number I’m on, until I’ve done enough push-ups that I’ve mentally lost count so I can proceed to do them because my body can do them, not because my mind can count them. I’m always counting. (“I’ve been counting the minutes you’re taking to tell this story.”) So I do them until I can’t do them and collapse, my right cheek pressed to the hardwood floor where I can see the vast collection of dust that’s amassed under my blue bass guitar and think: “Man, I gotta do some dusting” and then I fall asleep. I fell asleep once in my underwear laying on my hardwood floor. That happened yesterday anyway. (“I’m sorry. What were you saying? I fell asleep.”)
I remain
Champagne
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I WILL NOT TAKE THE RISK™.
I play RISK™. On-line. I play with other people. It’s sad.
I don’t work. My savings account is dwindling to an alarming level. I haven’t booked a commercial in almost a year. I should not be playing this shitty, life-sucking game anymore. Here’s what I think: “If I just hole up inside and play RISK™ I won’t be outside spending money.” That kinda seems like a good idea, doesn’t it? But the playing of that game, and watching the time tick away as the game inexorably progresses (and I can feel it tick away) is one of the most deadening, dust-making sensations I’ve ever felt. I’ve been operating under this rule (one I’ve been pretty good at following) that I’ll only play RISK™ on the week-end so I won’t feel like a total loser. But here it is the week-end and I’ve just spent hours playing it and I feel like a total piece of shit right now.
I hereby resolve to not play this horrible game for an entire year.
By the way: This is a game I’m not even that good at. I lose most of the time. One of the reasons I stopped playing poker was because even though I enjoy playing it, I was never good at it. The whole point of poker is to figure out what the other guy has. How can I possibly be bothered to figure out what you have? I don’t know even know what I have. And I can see my cards. That’s how bad I was and still am at poker. Math? Statistics? All the things you should be fairly adept at when you’re playing poker? I’m not good at. Really not good at. So I stopped playing. Part of it was because I also started doing stand-up and poker was interfering with my comedy habit, a habit to which I honestly need to re-addict myself. I’ll play with friends maybe twice a year because they’re great fun and everything and I’m fully prepared to lose whatever I’m gonna lose, but I don’t play nearly as much as I used to.
And as far as on-line RISK™ goes? No more of that shit for a year. A year. And if my career has gotten even worse by then, I’ll continue to not play it. Let this blog act as a declaration/mission statement. I mean it. American-style.
But if you guys ever wanna play the board game version of RISK™, lemme know. I’m so down.
(Both my agent and manager are my friends on Facebook.)
I remain
Champagne
GOT A BOYFRIEND? THEN ACT LIKE IT.
[The previous blog post (for July 29, 2011) is a transcript of a text conversation I had with a wrong number. This post will be an analysis of said conversation with the transcript reprinted here but interrupted by my thoughts and opinions of just what the hell we (the person to whom I conversed and I) said and maybe (maybe) why. If you haven’t read the July 29, 2011 post, you can do that now by going back a day, or not. You know what? Forget I said anything. You can do whatever the hell you want.
Exact typing has been represented here. When there are errors, you will see them. Most of the errors are contributed by the person to whom I’m “speaking.” And for issues of clarity, the wrong number will be referred to as a “she,” even though I know full well it could’ve been a dude. Every time I get a flirty text from someone I don’t know but who’s probably a woman, I think: “Hmm. Wonder if it’s a dude.”]
***
WRONG NUMBER: Hey!
ME: Don’t know who this is.
WRONG: Lol. Ash you just met me.
ME: No. I didn’t. What’s my name?
WRONG: Manuel! [At this point I turn to my friend Karl to help deal with this. If not for his encouragement, I would respond: “I’m not Manuel. You’re twenty-two (probably) and drunk. I’m forty-one and not drunk enough. Thanks for making me uncomfortable.” I seriously would say something like that. And even though it’s probably a drunk girl, what if it isn’t? Any text message sent from someone I don’t know is taken as an aggressive act. Karl encourages me to play along and lie.]
ME: Oh yeah! How’s it goin? Kinda drunk. [I’m not drunk.]
WRONG: Lol. I’m ash! Was w Mateo! [Weird. Because in Spanish my name’s Mateo. My grandmother would call me that.]
ME: Ooooh, right. You uh sexy and shit. [I feel absolutely filthy for texting that, and for telling you now that I texted that. But here’s what I assume: Manuel is a drunk and illiterate moron. So I try to text like one.]
WRONG: Lol Yeah you liked my boots that looked like doc’s. [I’m pretty sure she’s referring to Doc Martins, but I have to check with Karl for back-up. He concurs. And then I stand there and imagine what boots that look like Doc Martins look like and decide I would never think boots like that were cute.]
ME: I’d like to see you in JUST those doc’s. WHUUUUUUT?! [Perhaps the dumbest and grossest thing I’ve ever typed into my phone. My only attempt to save face is with the “WHUUUUUUT?!” For authenticity, I should probably omit the apostrophe in “I’d” because a dumb drunk guy probably ain’t gonna give a shit about apostrophes, but I don’t, because I’m hoping that she will see from my proper punctuation that I’m not Manuel and pick up on the fact that this is a wrong number. She doesn’t. It’s also at this point that I say to Karl: “What if it’s a cop?” Not “What if she’s a cop.” “What if it’s a cop.” Karl laughs and says: “Cops don’t do that.” I decide he’s right.]
WRONG: OuLol of course you would, buddy! [“Buddy.” One of the least sexy words ever. Why don’t you just say “Pal” or “Chum?”]
ME: J/K. I’m totally gay and stuff. [Karl suggests this. I’m fine with it because I’m hoping it’ll shut her up and I can go on with my sexless night of not drinking too much at the two parties I’m going to. And it seems to work because she doesn’t respond for eight hours and twenty-seven minutes.]
[Eight hours and twenty-seven minutes later.] [This refers to the passage of time known as sleep.]
WRONG: Lol okiedokie. [Just about all of her responses contain “lol.” Even eight hours and twenty-seven minutes later, early in the morning, she’s still typing “lol.” Although I have to say, “okiedokie” is a pretty funny response to “I’m totally gay and stuff.”]
ME: Not really. [And here’s where I have no excuse. Here is where if I really wanted to get rid of her, I could’ve done it. But I don’t. I think there are three things going on: 1.) I don’t want her to think I’m gay. I’ll admit it. Stupid. I know. 2.) This could, at the very least, be fun. 3.) I have no excuse for not engaging in this. There is no wife. There is no kid. There is no house. There are no chores. Other than my all-encompassing unemployment which threatens to destroy everything I’ve established for myself professionally for fifteen years, I have nothing pressing elsewhere that should keep me from some harmless fun. Why wouldn’t I just respond? (That last bit was written by the Devil.)]
WRONG: So confused!
ME: How was the rest of your night? [Now I’m as bad as she is.]
WRONG: Good, I passed out quick, lol.
ME: Roofied again, huh? [What a creep. Can you tell Karl isn’t around to help me make it funny anymore?]
WRONG: Yep. Damn roofies. Get me every time.
ME: We should have a roofie party. [I’m a shitty person.]
WRONG: Why are they called roofies? Everybody always end up on the floor! Bahahahaha
ME: You heard of that new dance mix called “Raise The Roofie?” [If you ask me, this is my most pathetic contribution to the conversation. Because now I’m doing jokes from my stupid fuckin’ act in a conversation with a human being. I am a shitty person.]
WRONG: Bahahaha
ME: It’s got a pretty good beat, but by the end you don’t know where you are and you’re crying. [Shut up, you fuck.]
WRONG: You so cleverrrrrrr
ME: Oh that ain’t nothin’. [I suck.]
ME: What you doin’ tonight? [I still suck. I don’t know anyone I can have these kinds of conversations with. That’s why I’m doing this.]
WRONG: No clue yet!
ME: Whattaya wanna do? [I am a piece of shit.]
WRONG: Idk, probably hanging out at my boyfriend’s house (mateo’s roommate) they tend to have cookouts/drink a lot on Saturday nights [She’s got a boyfriend! Finally! Something I can take a judgmental, moralizing stand with! That’s when I truly shine!]
ME: Boyfriend?
WRONG: Yup
WRONG: LOL don’t you remember asking how I knew Mateo and I said “he lives with my boyfriend”
ME: Why you be textin’ bros you just met when you got a boyfriend? [Do you have any idea how much nerve it takes for me to seriously type the word “bros” without being a sarcastic jerk?]
WRONG: Bc I like to talk to people. Make friends. Be friendly in general
ME: Show your boyfriend our conversation here and let’s see how friendly he is. [I’d actually like to see that. Really. I would.]
WRONG: Hey now. Don’t be mean. [This makes me wanna be mean.]
ME: What would your boyfriend think. Seriously. What do you think he’d think? [Missed a question mark there. Probably because I’m starting to get angry.]
WRONG: In my defense, you did say you were gay, my friend. [Her weakest defense. She was being flirty and suggestive way before Karl suggested I joke that I was gay.]
WRONG: He wouldn’t care. I’m allowed to talk to people. [Whenever I hear that sentiment expressed, I always wish that I had the boyfriend’s number or knew who he was to tell him about what his girlfriend is doing. Because I would! I promise you I absolutely would!]
ME: That was after I said I’d like to see you in only your boots. And I was kidding. Your boyfriend’s not Chris Brown, is he? [Creepshow.]
WRONG: Lol nope. [Still with the lol’s. We’re talking about her cheating potential, and she’s still typing “lol.”] Not chris brown. But if you prefer to speak to only single ladies I shall bid you adieu. I enjoyed your clever roofie jokes. [She uses “lol” and “adieu” in the same text. Odd. And that roofie joke? Five years old.]
ME: Show your boyfriend the part where I say: “You sexy and shit” and then you say: “Lol Yeah you liked my boots that looked like doc’s” and… [Pathetic, lonely, impotent anger.]
ME:…then I say: “I’d like to see you in just those docs’ WHUUUUUT?!” and then you say: “OuLol of course you would, buddy!” [I’m typing faster and faster here.]
WRONG: Dude, that’s just how I talk. Sorry to offend. [Wanna hear something obnoxious? It’s at this point that I honestly start to think that I can make her a better girlfriend.]
ME: This isn’t Manuel, by the way. My name isn’t Manuel. You got the wrong number.
WRONG: Hahahahahahaha touche! Whats your name then? [She knew the entire time she wasn’t talking to Manuel.]
ME: You know anyone named Manuel who has such perfect punctuation? [What the hell kind of potentially racist bullshit did I mean by that?]
WRONG: I don’t know anyone named Manuel that I know of. [Well-written.] Except, perhaps the person I thought you were. And since you are not he, I know now what sort of punctua—
WRONG: —tion he uses. [Now she’s trying to appear smarter than she is. It’s almost cute.]
ME: Your poor boyfriend. [If you narrowed all of this shit down into a theme, and summed up my attitude regarding this conversation, it would be with this line right here.]
WRONG: Eh. He knows I’m batshit and loves me anyways. So your name isn’t Reuben either? Drunk me confuses names. [If I were her boyfriend—and thank the Fates that I’m not—and I were to read this entire exchange, no response from her would hurt as much as this one. She says: “Eh.” I say: “Your poor boyfriend” and she says: “Eh.” That’s her response. And then, within the same text, she still tries to ascertain my name. This is her most hurtful contribution, by far. But fortunately, her boyfriend is the most understanding boyfriend ever, right? I mean, according to her, and we all know how trustworthy she is, he’d be fine with all of this.]
ME: My name’s Xavier. [Yup.]
WRONG: Are you bald and in a wheelchair? Do you have mutant mind powers? [I just like the name Xavier. I don’t give a shit about X-Men.]
ME: Aren’t you curious what happened to Manuel? [Champagne, you furious, furious man.]
WRONG: Not really. I’m now thoroughly amused by this conversation. And apparently his name is Reuben, not Manuel. [The more suggestive and coy she gets, the sadder I get.]
ME: How do you know? [Now I’m starting to think the other people she’s mentioned are in the room with her.]
WRONG: Mateo told me. & heather.
ME: Oh yeah! Heather! (No idea who Heather is.)
WRONG: She smallish and red headed. Was with me last night. All of this is completely irrelevant if you are in fact a balding mutant.
WRONG: She is*
ME: Your attention to typing has improved since finding out I’m not Manuel. [Should’ve brought it back to the boyfriend.]
WRONG: Also since now I’m actually awake, and now in a hungover sleep-haze
WRONG: Not* dammit.
WRONG: Also, you made a punctuation crack, and I felt I needed to step up my punctuation game to compete.
ME: Hey, I gotta go. Bye. [Something I should’ve said at the beginning.]
WRONG: Okiedoie. Nice to never have met you. [Kinda funny, actually.]
***
If you got a boyfriend, act like it. If you got a girlfriend, act like it.
I remain
Champagne
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