Invective

Greetings, stranger slash pseudo BFF.

I don’t like you. I’m not polite to you. I don’t even make eye contact with you. I’m openly rude and hostile (see “farm boy” for example).

You don’t get to inquire about my mom. You don’t get to ask about my holiday. You don’t get to offer to buy me Sprite with grenadine.

You’re not my BFF. You’re not even an acquaintance. You’re not my friend, you’re a friend of my friend. When we see each other in bars, I go to the bathroom, I stand over the toilet, and I chop my arms in the air and yell about how much I want to you to leave me alone.

Remember when you were mad at me? Not the time that you were so mad at me that you made fun of me to my face--that made me cry a lot in the bathroom instead of karate chopping. Remember when you were the type of mad at me that you just ignored me? I loved that. I blessed you every day you literally turned up your nose at me and scowled. I loved that phase of our relationship. I loved it when you talked to my friends and invited them to your house and then turned away from me with a sideways glance and scowl.

Bad guys make sideways eyes. You should know that. You’re a movie villain, and I’m a put upon victim like we were in a Western movie or a Jane Austin novel. You’re the angry, bitter, spinster aunt-in-law, and I’m the impoverished cousin with the heart of gold.

Don’t fake charity me. Don’t ask about my mom. Don’t ask how my family roasts turkey at Thanksgiving. You don’t get that privilege from me.

Sincerely,
Christine Wy