WANTED: Friends

Today, I was chatting with my best and frankly only friend, Kara. She was going on and on about her boyfriend and how jealous he gets about her innocent flirting with other guys at cafes, parks, parties, bars, at work, on the street, at the gym, on MUNI, at family functions, you get the idea, she’s a floozy. Just before I was about to offer the idea that perhaps her boyfriend wouldn’t be so jealous if she hadn’t cheated on him with their dog-sitter last year she steers the conversation to a recent event that took place at the gym.

Apparently she was right in the middle of her 5lb, 8 rep, 3 set weight set when this oddly shaped muscular chick rudely interrupts the last stanza of Britney Spears’ “Toxic” (Yeah! I know! Fucking cunt! Not Britney, the beefy Dyke) and asks if she needs a “spot”. Kara sympathetically motioned how politely she declined the offer but then started bitching about how annoying it is that she can’t get any peace from “people hounding her for attention”, even at the gym. I was about to suggest loosing the thong singlet and FX team worth of make-up plastered on her face, when she then veered into another insulting incident on MUNI where a homeless man uttered more than the allotted ‘ya gots change?’ and stepped it up a notch with ‘ya gots change, sweet baby?’ (Dear Lord, the natives are restless) . I felt the topic of our conversation was rather aloof from my grasp of understanding until, in a moment of clarity, it finally materialized along with my expected responses.

My floozy best friend is attractive, sought after, wanted, a hunted lil bunny in the carnal game of social hide and seek by not only men, ladies and gentlemen, but women too. Oh yes, that is the agonizing, compliment ridden, socially accepted, “Oh my god! We love you!” miserable reality of being Kara. In short, she is a pretty girl and that is a problem for her and I’m supposed to care. I don’t. That’s how this starts.