Last night, I sat under a blanket watching the Golden Globes (ASIDE: It appears I cannot type blanket without typing blankey first, which is really weird because I never really utter the word blankey, not ever) and thinking about Patrick.
It’s been over a year since I heard from Patrick, a dashing dark-haired, blue-eyed thirty-something I had a sort of dalliance with last year. Or rather mostly in 2015. Time has ceased to have any meaning to me.
I know it’s been a year since I heard from Patrick because we had what I can only guess was a falling out regarding the Golden Globes. Or really, I think we had a falling out because men are dumb and think they are vastly superior in all ways.
See, it went down something like this. The afternoon of last year’s Golden Globes Patrick sent me a text: “I’m so depressed.”
“Why?” I texted back.
“The Vikings lost.”
“I should come over so you can comfort me,” he texted. (Texted feels like weird attribution, can I just use said? Is that allowed or is that a lie?)
“Well, I’ve got plans to watch The Golden Globes with Twitter,” I texted.
“That’s pretty frivolous,” he texted.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “But so is football.”
“Football is not frivolous.”
“It is so.”
“Besides,” I said. “I will spend one night watching an awards show and it will have zero impact on me emotionally. Whereas you invest how much time watching football? And now you’re depressed because a team you root for lost? Tell me again about frivolous.”
And Patrick was never heard from again. The end.
(Like for real, how can any person who does not make an actual living on some sporting nonsense claim that it is not frivolous? Aren’t professional sports the very definition of frivolous? Just because you like it doesn’t make it serious or purposeful or you know anything but mindless entertainment to distract you from the absurdity of reality.)