Ehhhhh. Feeling bored. Sorry if it's not up-to-par/too short/whateva.
Steve Rendazo (10:00): Hey. Lezzie
Steve Rendazo (10:03): Helloooo
Steve Rendazo (10:04): Anybody home?
Juno MacGuff (10:05): Jesus.
Juno MacGuff (10:05): I left to go make me a sandwich.
Juno MacGuff (10:05): So why did you message me?
Steve Rendazo (10:05): Make me a sammich.
Steve Rendazo (10:06): Woman
Juno MacGuff (10:08): Please, don't be afraid to refer to my previous question.
Juno MacGuff (10:09): Unless you honestly wanted me to make you a lunch delicacy as I have nimble fingers and adept stacking abilities.
Steve Rendazo (10:10): This is why you can't sit at the cool kid table
Steve Rendazo (10:11): Wasn't in class today. Did we have hw?
Steve Rendazo (10:14): Do I offend
Juno MacGuff (10:25): And I'm back. We didn't have any homework….
Juno MacGuff (10:26): We never do, Rendazo….
Juno MacGuff (10:28): This is why you can't make honor roll
Steve Rendazo (10:29): Hey
Steve Rendazo (10:29): I pay attention
Steve Rendazo (10:29): For all you know I could be honor roll
Juno MacGuff (10:30): Please
Steve Rendazo (10:31):
Steve Rendazo (10:32): I feel cyberbullied
Juno MacGuff (10:33): So go cry into your community college application
Steve Rendazo (10:36): No hw, then
Juno MacGuff (10:37): Nope.
~Juno MacGuff has logged off of Facebook Chat~
"Do you want to do something?:)" I stare at the glowering little screen at my thumbs all I'm-about-to-have-a-mental-breakdown style. Every single time I get this text from Bleek it means one thing and one thing only: he wants some action. In the pants. Pronto.
Usually I blush, laugh, and stomp into my sneakers to head over to his place. Nothing like a little bit of nookie, my grandma never said.
However, the instant I read those words Sara Parker's face flashed in front of me. Whoops, I should clarify: Sara's face *attached* to Paulie's face flashed before my eyes. She really is really pretty—far prettier than I; the honest, humble voice I usually keep gagged in the back of my mind realizes it. The adolescent voice inside of me decides to loathe this shallow fact and attribute it to…
To the beginning of the end of my relationship with Bleeker.
As much as I'd like to get my mack on with my sweet, well-intentioned man—I know that I'd be picturing her the whole time. That last statement very well may justify every single one of those homosexual jokes Rendazo scoffs my way. I digress.
We—Bleek and I—we feel doomed. As doomed as Oprah attempting yet again a cheeseburger-less diet. And so I impulsively take on a dark and dismal perspective deserving of some kind of published set of free-verse poems: I gotta tell him that—
My phone lights up with a second text from him: ";)"
Still, I can literally feel his bony finger slipping and fumbling his way around Down Under, eyes staring at me, lips lightly pecking around like an anxious and starved bird-Quantity not quality, my grandma also never said.
And yet, something breaks inside of me. I blush, I laugh softly, and I stomp on my tennis shoes.
"Be back in a few hours!" I call out to probably nobody.
To my surprise I hear Brenda's distant "Drive safely!" from the kitchen.