“This amazing girl is texting me right now.”
HI, ERIK, NICE TO MEET YOU LAST NIGHT
“Where’d you meet her?” Jimmy asks.
“She was playing a Kupfer harpsichord on a slip and slide down the catwalk at the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. She was basically streaking except for these leg warmers or stockings,” I say, as if it’s a ubiquitous event. “It was so hot.”
“And you actually met her?”
“We’re already Facebook friends,” I say proudly. “I’ll log onto the internet and show you.”
“Whoa, she is a bodacious sprocket.”
HEY PERENIALLY, YOU WANT TO GO OUT AND LISTEN TO SOME CUNT MUSIC?
“Oh shit! What did I just send her?”
I MEAN CUNT MUSIC!
“Oh my god, I must be overworked. I’m trying to write punk music and my phone keeps autocorrecting.”
Jimmy chuckles. “Is her name really Perennially?”
“Yeah Perennially Eschew. But how do I fix this?”
“This erroneous text I just sent! She’s gonna think I’m a wack-job!”
“Dude, just tell her you didn’t mean it to sound derogatory. That cunt music is just a derivative of punk.”
SORRY, IGNORE THAT LAST TEXT. I WANT YOU TO HOT CARL ME TO DEATH.
“Oh my God! I’m writing that I want her to see my new place!”
HOW ABOUT I COOK YOU SOME OVER EASY EGGS?
“Crap! I typed in dinner! Dinner! Not over easy eggs! Now she’s gonna think I’m some Tazmanian Devil expecting her to sleep over like a barfly,” I say, exasperated. I spend a moment in contemplation and notice the exuberant grin on Jimmy’s face. “What did you do to my phone, man?”
“Nothin’” His grin widens. He’s the epitome of guilt.
“You’re an oozing pustule on the butt of humanity! Now fix my phone!”
NEVER TEXT ME AGAIN, Perennially replies.
Whatever expectation I had of fixing my scripturient texts dwindle, and I decide to beat the crap out of Jimmy.