======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ==== ======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ====
I might as well start with an honest disclaimer: I’m dealing with a legitimate problem right now that probably does not have an actual solution. So naturally I’ll detail it all here and open myself up to purposely terrible suggestions (TFM) and a further erosion of my own personal dignity.
My roommate has seemingly been in hiding all second semester like an asparagus picker during the future Trump Administration. Used to see the kid all the time, but since we aren’t the type to use each other’s assholes as hand warmers, an unexplained semester-long absence can really only mean one thing: he’s got a girl, and he really likes her.
He seems to actually care about her, too. At least enough about to realize bringing her anywhere near the disgusting degenerates he spends most of his time with before solidifying their bond like Siamese twins (or at least having anal) could put his newfound love on shakier ground than the current state of the Sanders campaign.
So, whatever. To be frank, I’d rather not pretend Mark (not our brother Marky Mark) is a “great guy that really likes you, I can tell!” I prefer discussion of happier topics, like the time he convinced his first Asian to try #ButtStuff2016 and his bed ended up looking like he spilled a cauldron of vegetable goulash.
To my shock, however, yesterday’s “Sunday Funday,” as every basic woman under the age of 37 calls it, was rudely interrupted by some random news: I’d finally be meeting his new lady. Of course this came with a warnings seminar where I learned what not to discuss and the ongoing lies I’d need to play along with. Seriously, man? Nobody believes you’re “on track for med school.”
But alas, he’s my friend, so I’ll play this role better than a daytime soap actor and let the kid figure out on his own how relationships built on lies and general deceit turn out. Furthermore, as the environmentalist I am, I realized flying home in six days means I have to drink everything left in the apartment (fucking TSA), so I’ve been in a perpetual state of drunkenness, perhaps obvious from how this is written.
Just as my latest pitcher of diabolical concoction had run dry, the kind that has you inexplicably partially torqued at the pool with your phone out “what’s up” texting any slam having the nerve to still be in your contacts, I hear my name, and this time, it wasn’t a hallucination.
Fuck, she has great tits I’m thinking as they continue approaching.
“Siblings, what’s up man?”
I can’t formulate a response, a combination of my blackout condition and my fascination with her levitating cantaloupes.
“Yea guys yea hi” I manage to spit out.
“Siblings, this is Katie. Katie, my roommate.”
She reaches to shake my hand, then sits down crammed into the same beach chair as Mark.
“So this has been your day?” Mark asks me. The condescending twat thinks his “job” at the student rec center is some sort of accomplishment.
“You know me, just holding down the fort,” I respond.
I’m mesmerized by this girl, though. I’m not sure if it’s my substance-induced haze or what, but something just does not seem right here.
“Katie” I blurt out. “Where are you from, who are you.” Mark interjects.
“Dude how fucked up are you?” Mark is getting pissed.
“Sober as a newborn,” I say. I turn back to Katie.
“Do I know you?”
Katie looks both puzzled and angry, a reaction I would imagine Intern Sydney sports every Friday looking over your “reader questions.”
“I go to (name redacted) so I doubt we’ve met.” This only enhances my feeling of discomfort. Something here is not right, aside from the fact these idiots are about to eat Krispy Kreme donuts by the pool. Weird on its own, but fucking criminal since they’re sharing a box and no offer is made to me.
I’m now staring intently at both the donut and Katie’s sweater puppies as she takes each bite, the frosting getting all over her face each time she opens her mou — HOLY FUCK IT HIT ME, I KNOW HER. Katie is “community college Cate tits” (actually still in my contacts), a three-nighter of mine from early sophomore year.
It all makes sense now — maybe it wasn’t Mark that hid Katie, but Katie who hid from me. Well, probably both. I’m sitting there staring at this woman that just claimed we’d probably never met, unsure if this is due to my forgettable sexual prowess or her own personal strategy of not mentioning it while thinking “please don’t remember the elevator blow job.” Well, honey, it took a minute, but I remember.
But here’s my problem — clearly this girl hasn’t told Mark anything, and I don’t know whether or not it’s my place to do so.
Look, if I really liked a girl, the last thing I’d want to know is that my idiot buddy tasted her tuna tartare. But can I really let the relationship go on without saying anything? As it stands, Mark has no idea Krispy Kreme is not the only thing at this pool to have glazed his girlfriend’s face, and, quite frankly, I feel fucking sick about it. Though to be fair, I am on a bender. Could be that, too.
So tell me: what the fuck do I do? Full disclosure: currently leaning towards saying to her “hey, you really should tell him this.”.