So the next day she calls me at work. At 9 AM. The store opened at 10 every day. She called me three times in a row before the store even opened. I'd asked her not to call me at work since I was a commissioned sales counselor and my paycheck was directly proportional to the amount of time that I spent on the sales floor and off of the phone. She called me three more times that day. Each time I told her to leave me alone, that maybe we'd talk later, but that I really really really needed to get back on the sales floor and, you know, make money.
She calls me at home five times that night. Five times, one right after the other, within a fifteen minute time frame. Each time she left the exact same message...
"Nick, this is Rachel. I just wanted to let you know that I really had fun the other night, and I was hoping you'd want to get together again sometime soon. Like, maybe tomorrow. We could go to a movie or something. I really had fun, Nick, and I'd really like to date you. Maybe we can talk about that tonight. Please give me a call as soon as you get in. All right. Bye."
She left this message five fucking times...as if I was going to give up and answer after the fourth time. "Ah, sorry, I was screening my calls, but I'll talk to you now since you obviously won't give up, you rascal, you." Fuck that.
I call blocked the bitch.
Have you ever call blocked someone? When you do it, they get a pre-recorded message the next time they call in...
"The party that you are trying to reach has placed a block on your number. You cannot reach them. They don't want to talk to you. So take a hint, you dense motherfucker, and stop calling them, because it's obvious even to imbeciles that you're not wanted by this party. Go away and leave them the hell alone, you scary fucker."
Okay, so I embellish a bit. But that's the gist of the message, really. It doesn't leave anything to the imagination - you've been blocked, which means they don't want to talk to you. End of story. Quit calling them. Cut your losses and leave.
Oh, no. Not her.
She goes to a friend's house and calls me from there. She leaves the exact same message, complete with her home phone number, but says that "for some weird reason" she "couldn't get through" to me. No shit! I blocked you! It even told you that I blocked you! So I block her friend's number and go to bed. My mom, by this time, was pissed off. I still lived at home back then. I'm so sorry, mom.
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.
Expendable? You must be joking.
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