Tuesday, October 23, 2012

It’s not her, dood. It’s you.

On the T this morning, I hear this guy getting cell-phone dumped. Looked kinda like the guy to the left, only with more Boston douche flavor. Based on his half of the conversation, I think I know why his squeeze just wasn’t feeling it anymore:

Dumped via Cell Guy:

Like, I feel like, like, that I want this, like, more than you do. It’s like, everything I do or, like, say is like, the wrong thing. Like… you know? Like, when I talk about, like, the future and… stuff, you, like, push me away. You, like, put up these, like … walls. Or something. No, I… Like… Yeah, I d-… Like, I don’t know, what do you want me to, like, you know, like, do? You know? Jeez.

I picture this stereotypical, backward Red Sox ball cap-wearing retahd spending last night with Dump via Cell Phone Girl, who probably got just drunk enough to fuck him one last time. This morning, she couldn’t wait for him to just for God’s sake leave already. She waits until he’s about three T stops away, then she makes the Dump Call. Because every second she spends with this guy, she can feel herself getting more stoopid.

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