The Writing on the Wall

     I was recently on fall break, and what an eventful fall break it was. Not only did I see a woman on a sidewalk get punched in the face not once, but twice, have to run frantically through the streets of Chicago in an attempt to catch a train, get creepily hit on by a man at least forty years my senior in the middle of an empty park at sunset, and repeatedly wipe pus out of my dog’s eye; I also just so happened to make a new best friend.

     Now, our relationship has always been a little shaky. After all, we haven’t actually done what you might consider “meeting each other” yet. No, my new best friend and I met solely through the medium of textual messaging. On the last night of my break, I decided to go out to some of the local bars with my brother and his friends. After throwing back a few amaretto sours, I needed to use the bathroom. Now, normally I don’t spend tons of time inspecting bathroom stall walls. But since I’ve turned 21, I’ve discovered that the bathrooms in bars can actually make for some very interesting reading. I mean, without bar bathroom graffiti, how would I know that Cindy P. and Jason K. will last forever (despite the fact that Cindy P. seems to have already vowed her undying love to Jessie H.)? How would I know that Marissa is the best lay in town? Most importantly of all, how would I know that a certain phone number belongs to somebody considered to be a slut?

When I saw the phone number of this supposed slut on the wall, I could not help but wonder how and why the number had come to be written there in permanent marker. I mean, really, there had to be a good story behind that. Surely it would have something to do with betrayal, jealousy, love, and lust. Clearly there was a story behind this number that could rival any soap opera, reality TV show, or particularly intense episode of Arthur.

Naturally, I had to contact the person behind the number, so, mid-pee, I whipped out my phone and proceeded to send the number a friendly message. At least, I thought it was pretty friendly. I simply wrote “Hey, what’s up?! I found your number on a bathroom stall wall!” (normally I don’t use exclamation marks so liberally, but I wanted my friendliness to come across clearly). And what do you think the response was? I was expecting a cordial, “Oh, hi, nice to hear from you!  Yes, I am that slut being spoken of on the wall… what can I say, I like me some man meat!”. But no, I was sent a rude, abrupt, and disgustingly grammatically incorrect message saying “I think your full of shit”. I could not figure out what would cause somebody to jump to such a conclusion. What possible reason would I have for randomly texting a person, telling them that I found their number on a bathroom stall wall? None, right? That’s what I thought. But, instead of pointing this out, I responded with the facts of the matter as they were. I told the supposed slut the name of the bar I was in and the exact stall that her number was written in.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking: how fucking bored must you have been to start texting a random number in the middle of a bar. Well, let me tell you: pretty bored. It turns out that when my brother and his friends go drinking, they basically just sit around playing pool while talking about the latest episode of The  Walking Dead. Since I am pretty terrible at pool and have little to no interest in stories about a post-apocalyptic zombie ruled world, there wasn’t much for me to do. So, even if this random person I was texting wound up being a maniac who would actually come to the bar and demand to know who had been texting her, at least it would have added a little excitement to the night.

Alas, my new best friend did not make an appearance. Her farewell message to me was touching, thought provoking, and perfectly summed up our friendship. Let me share her eloquent words of wisdom with you, they’re simply too beautiful for the world not to hear: “Yea I got a lot of haters don’t really give a shit .. if writin’ my number down is the worst they can do then they’re fuckin’ pathetic…. Have a good night”. I proceeded to damn her slanderers to hell and wish her a good night in return. When she did not respond to my last text, I knew our friendship had run its course. Yes, I will miss this wonderful friend that I made, but at least I’ll have the memories forever… or, at least until I clean out my inbox and forget about it entirely.