faux convo

exercise is such a fucking stress reliever!

goddamn, i said; goddamn!

(is that punctuated correctly?)

so, i'm about to embark on an imaginary conversation that will replace the real conversation i should be having with my friend G-Love. and since i'm certain she's the only one that reads this blog, i figure it'd be fun.

Me: So, did you hear about Franky? (yes, Franklin)

G: oh god, no...what's the story?

Me: well, evidently he was being a drunken baffoon, shocking i know, in front of Irish Eyes (which, i'm not sure if you've been to. it's new and on 9W near Pier 9)

G: yeah, i think you told me about it before. so what happened with poor Franklin?

Me: i guess he was in the parking lot being an ass with a friend and went to either kick him or maybe he jumped or something--i forget the exact details--and landed on his leg wrong and fractured his femur (wait...is that the name of the shin bone?)

G: no, that's the *enter name of actual bone here*, silly.

Me: ok, whatever.

G: haha

Me: well, whatever the hell that bone is, he broke it in two places.

G: are you serious?

Me: yes. and of course he has no insurance because he's a dumbass and likes not having a job and such.

G: oh lordy. i should give him a call...

Me: yes, you should.

after we BS about other dramas such as my fucked love life and her approaching graduation, we'll tell each other how cool i am (ha!) and that the other should come visit.

(there is an atrocious odor wafting in from my window...it's like a mixture of cigarette butts and soil and rotting animal. dear god. i could use a wiff of windex right about now)

Me: oh, and how the hell to you continue to beat me at friendster? i'm much cooler than you.

G: because i rock the proverbial casbah.

Me: damnit.

G: mwah-ha-ha. [now in a British accent] oh darling, don't fret. i'm sure there are lots of strange or married men that would love to be added to your list.

Me: [also in a British accent] i will have to destroy you, darling. i'm off to prepare my battle.

G: ta-ta.

*click*

(phones don't really *click* anymore when you hang up. if anything it's a beep. i wonder how long it will take the English language to reflect that one. i wish i'd been an etymologist. which, for my own ego-boost, my married co-worker didn't believe even existed. i didn't even know there was a word for people that studied words. i think you're making this shit up. the truth is he thinks i'm brilliant and it probably turns him on immensely. sucka'!)