In one of my old gigs (maybe this one too? I can’t remember and my googlefinger is broken) I used to write annual breakup letters to the dying year. Well, I’m not going to this year. Not that 2009 can’t go straight to H-E Double Swizzle Sticks, because it can and should since it was pretty much the worst year ever, and I’m including 1992 when I developed an unhealthy relationship with Aussie Sprunch Spray and that weird V05 hair ointment stuff that may or may not be sheep lube.
Still, I feel like I ought to impart some wisdom to mark the end of the so-called naughties, so here we go:
Don’t worry about being liked, worry about being good.
A few weeks ago, my bestie henceforth known as The Carolina Royal and I were partaking of a restorative toddy at our favorite dive bar. A group of people had attached themselves to us and had, over the course of about an hour, become tedious. Now, I have a very low tolerance for tedious, and having a drunk married straight guy in odious brown polyknit try to bust up my chiffarobe ranks pretty high on the tedious factor.
Anyhoodle, his friend –having scored some coke, because apparently tedious people need to be boring faster– comes by and asks TCR and me if his friends are driving us crazy, to which I smile broadly and answer yes.
TCR was aghast.
He said “well I’m glad you said something, because I would’ve just said ‘oh nooooo, of course not’ and then we would’ve been saddled with them all night.”