March 21st, 2011Uncategorized
I am amazed by my ability to annoy, irritate and be creepy. I’m also surprised by my inability to make and keep new friends. I think I’ve pinpointed the problem: I make inappropriate jokes to people I barely know and I get stalky when I learn that they are not, in fact, charmed by my antics.
It starts with a little innocent spying on Facebook, but before I know it, I’m stealing their pictures to e-mail to friends with subject lines like “Get a load of this bastard.” I start going to the bar where they work to order the drink I’ve named after them. I tell the other patrons that this Big Red Travis is the best drink I’ve ever had and insist that they too order one. Swarms of people flock to the bar for a Big Red Travis—or they would if I were half as persuasive in real life as I am in my head.
I start obsessing about why a particular person doesn’t like me, convinced that if they only knew me, we’d be the best of friends. I decide there’s got to be some way of showing them how cool I really am. I think about breaking into their car and hiding in the back seat until they get off work. When they slide into the front, I’ll say in a low, menacing voice, “How was work? and they’ll get that it’s a joke and they’ll say “Oh, Ami, I was all wrong about you!” Then we’ll both laugh and hug and go out for a brewski.
One day I realized that the people who don’t get or don’t care for my jokes all have one thing in common: red hair. I don’t have anything against red hair in general (unless it’s long and on a guy); there just seems to be a pattern.
The only exception I’ve found is a red-headed friend who always keeps his head shaved. When I realized this, I mused that it was all so simple: To get them to like me, I simply need to remove their hair. Ethan happened to be around and, without quite the same enthusiasm, agreed that, yes, of course they’ll like me after I scalp them.
I started to plan the specifics of the event, but then I saw myself, the electric hair-clippers jerking around on the floor while I’m being dragged away in handcuffs, clutching a dirty sack full of red hair, mascara smeared, shirt ripped, screaming, “You don’t understand—I have to shave that hair off or she’ll never get me—you don’t understaaaaaaaannnnnddddd…” It made me a little sad.
So I decided to fall back on Plan A. I’ll create fake Facebook accounts for the people who don’t want to be my friends, and I’ll constantly leave lame comments on my page from “them”: “Hey, Ami, had hella fun last weekend—your moves are so fresh!”
I’ll use outdated slang and poor grammar to make them look like jerks. I’ll continue to do this until they see the mistake they’ve made. And if that doesn’t work, one night I’ll wait until they’re fast asleep and I’ll just crawl into bed with them.