Wednesday, 6 November 2013

Mess With Me And Your Memoir Mention Gets It

It's here. It's finally happened. (No, I've not started to do something with my life if that's what you thought. Sorry to get you excited if it was). I have got a new phone. It's shiny and modern and takes good photographs and lets me go on the internet when I'm on the bus. On the BUS. Can you imagine? You probably can, because you probably have one of these phones too, but for me, it's all brand new. I have been using the same beat-up Nokia since the late 2000s and have been refusing and refusing for years to upgrade to anything. My reasoning was very much along the lines of, "I don't want to be one of those people who sits in the pub on the phone all evening," and I knew that, should I have the opportunity to, I would probably do that. Because I love the internet. I've not got to the stage yet where I'll sit in the corner all night looking at it, but I did walk into a tree walking home from the pub on Friday night because I was looking at my phone. I've never been hit by a car, but I imagine that it is a pretty similar to what I went through. My glasses flew off my face, my phone flew to the pavement, and my head ricocheted off the tree and into the night. I was so embarrassed that I had to stagger around and pretend to be a lot drunker than I actually was just so the man walking towards me didn't think I was an absolute moron. He probably still thought that, but at least he'll have thought it's because I was highly intoxicated.

The main reason I got a new phone was because I was sick of hearing my friends pipe up with snarky comments every time I got a text. "Ooh, someone just got a message from the nineties!" - Unacceptable behaviour from friends. They should know by now the one most important thing about me: I can dish it, but I can't take it. It's a gigantic problem I have and I'm afraid I've always been this way. I throw a snowball and it gets you right in the eye? Hilarious. I will laugh manically for a good ten minutes, regale the story with mirth for years to come, and still 100% expect us to be best friends forever. You throw a snowball and it gets me in the eye? Oh no. Big no no. There will be a little bit of fake laughter, and then I'll move the conversation away from what just happened whilst secretly thinking, 'oh my God. I thought we were friends. I can't believe they hate me. And that actually really hurt (my feelings).' I will then spend the next week wracked with insecurity and trying to figure out what I've done wrong in our relationship to make you stop loving me. The blood-shot eye from the snowball attack will calm down, but, unfortunately, our friendship cannot be salvaged. I had one of my famous I Fucking Hate X, Y and Z rants the other day about leopard print. I hate it, I really, really despise leopard print, and I will not hesitate to sit there for fifteen minutes solid and list everything that I think is wrong with it. After listening to my passionate speech about the vomit inducing print, my friend told me that she was going to buy me a leopard print t-shirt as a joke and then pretend it was a serious gift. This is the kind of joke that I will happily do to someone else but would never play along with should it be done to me. Even if I suspected that it was a joke, I would never voice my doubt. I would accept it, tell her that I usually don't like leopard print but this is different, maybe it's something about the cut of the collar or the unique fabric that it's made out of? I don't know, but I just love it. I would wear it the next time I saw her. I would wear it even if I knew I wasn't going to see her, just in case I ran into her. I would wear it so much over the following year that people would stop referring to me as, 'that weird girl I always see spilling her pint all over herself in the pub,' and instead I'd be known as, 'that girl that really likes leopard print.' Eventually, one evening as we are cooking tea or playing Scrabble, my friend will say to me, "I can't believe how much you love that t-shirt. I initially bought it for you as a joke, haha!" and then she'd laugh and continue checking the Scrabble rule book to see if adding a Z to pluralise a word counts for points as it's, "how they spell it in the ghetto," and I would sit there, looking like a complete knobhead (not least because I am wearing leopard print), and once again, I would have to scratch another person off the list of people whose friendship I can count on. The moral of the story? I don't really think the moral of the story is not to play jokes on me, I think the moral of the story is probably, 'Amy needs a slap,' but still. Don't play jokes on me. Because I will cry, and we will no longer be friends, and then when I am a rich and famous blogger and I release my largely anticipated memoirs, Rookie Mistakes, that really funny story of us doing something absolutely hilarious will not be included, and the money you could have made from being my friend will be no longer existent, all because of one silly mistake on your part. Think about that next time you think, "wouldn't it be hilarious to do this to Amy?" - because unless you want to be a pauper for the rest of your life, no. It wouldn't be.