SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Giving Notice - Friday, Sept. 29, 2017
Accepting Offers - Tuesday, Sept. 26, 2017
Indian/Polish Wedding - Thursday, Sept. 21, 2017
The Builder - Wednesday, Sept. 13, 2017
Rupert Part II - Sunday, Sept. 10, 2017


Monday, May. 08, 2017 @ 3:24 pm
Now We're Even



Miss Alethia inquired about my whereabouts. I'm here. I'm just feeling a little quiet.

On the weekend, I met an old friend for breakfast. She refers to me as her 'best friend', which I do not agree with at all. Let me explain.

It's the most beautiful of Vancouver mornings. We arranged to meet early - I'm just old like that, and she is on Alberta time. I cruise downtown on the Mobi bike, False Creek all glistening, my hands cold with the morning air, cheeky cherry red Ray Ban knockoffs, and my new favourite white ruffle top, my hair still damp and blowing out behind me in loose waves reaching below my shoulder blades. I feel pretty amazing - awake, alive, and free.

She really wanted to meet at this newer chain breakfast joint. I had suggested something more interesting, but she declined. As soon as I walked into the place, a sinking feeling came over me. A huge eight page, laminated and bound menu with photos of every dish was plunked in front of me. The server, who couldn't have been older than 17, called me Ma'am and had a fake smile plastered on his face. Ugh. Seriously. Table after table of older Americans, the restaurant located in the bottom of an inoffensive and modestly priced hotel.

She gave me a hug, plunked herself down, and proceeded to talk about herself NONSTOP for two and a half hours. But that's not all.

In the course of her self involved verbal diarrhea, she explained to me of her new poly relationship with a couple from Calgary, several tales of escapades at swingers clubs, and of the series of men that she's been 'playing' with. I'm not a prude, and I don't care what you do in the bedroom; in fact, I'm not interested in your bedroom activities whatsoever. Especially not every single detail ad noseum. Especially in the way that you are describing it. But that's not all.

"Did I tell you that we had a photoshoot done?"

"...No?"

She whips out her phone. I'm expecting some cheesy anniversary shots with coordinated outfits, a field of mustard in bloom. What appears before me on the screen? Pornography. Uncensored. A seven hour photoshoot's worth of it. Bondage gear. Various positions. Fellatio. MACRO SHOTS OF LADY BITS.

You know that emoji with the giant eyes and blushing cheeks? THAT WAS ME.

I excused myself to the bathroom and sat there LIVID with anger.

Let me remind you that she didn't ask a single question about my well-being.

We parted ways shortly. A total of three hours of her babbling on about her sex life and her medication regimen. I think that I was physically turning away from her on the street, possibly even rolling my eyes as she was prattling on about herself some more.

She finally cut me free. I half walked half ran away from her up the street. Shoved on my earbuds and cranked music up so loud. Fobbed out a Mobi and mashed my frustration into the pedals.

My stupid expensive uninspired breakfast complete with a sprig of wilted kale. Her complete and utter lack of interest in me. Her complete and utter absorption with herself. Her showing me a photo of her vulva without asking me whether I'd actually like to see it. Her showing me a photo of her husband riding her with a whip.

She texts me a few minutes later, saying how nice it was to see me. I have no desire to respond.

I arrive home a hot mess.

D says to me, "You know, sometimes friendships just run their course. You were frustrated the last time you saw her too, remember? You don't need to respond. If she asks why you aren't responding, then tell her the truth."

Later that evening. We're out with some friends for drinks. D's already told them the story, and I'm already able to laugh about it.

Someone looks at me with a smirk:

"I know how you should resolve this. Text her a photo of your own bits with the words NOW WE'RE EVEN."


Roots | Shoots