That kind of girl

I’m that kind of girl who is extremely possessive of her friends. They’re mine – I found them first. I love them the hardest. I get the inside jokes. I know the parents. I hang out the most. I’m the go-to friend. I’m “one of the guys”. I’m the best friend. I’m it. So back off.

And you? You’re new. So please don’t do the high-pitched, excited “OMG NO WAAAYYYY” squeal when you find something in common with my friends – nutella pizza is EVERYONE’S favorite. Everyone knows the “orange mocha frappucino’s” line from Zoo Lander. People dip their fries in ice cream. And rock band? My game. I’m the original band member – I don’t care how well you sing Alanis.

But, against my better judgement, I can’t lock up my friends in a room and bake cookies and brownies for them all day and high-five each other while we sing along to Oasis’s Wonderwall.

So, we’ve been mingling. (After that description, I’d guess it’s probably a good idea). I’m not amused.


I’m that kind of girl who will always believe that this guy is different. Even though he cut me off mid-sentence and said “let’s go dance”, I figure he must be enjoying the music. He held my hand to get me through the crowds and stopped to say hello to all his girlfriends along the way. I guess he really likes his friends. Just like me! (OMG, NO WAYY!)

And while we’ve only ever been acquaintances, he was quite comfortable getting his hands acquainted with my ass. He must’ve thought my hand pushing his off was just a funky new dance move.

Finally, when I politely thanked him for a fun evening and excused myself, he asked for my number! (See, he really is different. He wants to take me to coffee). So he punches in my digits on to his cool little phone, then hands it over to me so I can fill in my name. *awkward silence*

In all fairness, the last time we saw each other was a really long time ago. I’m not amused.


And I’m that kind of girl who will get up, dust myself off and get out there all over again to experience all sorts of new torture, because I like the abuse. Of course, only after I’ve gotten my fair share of bitching and whining done. Something’s gotta give eventually, right?


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s