We were walking towards each other down a narrow sidewalk. Me downhill. You up. There was something off about your stride. Like you had a blister you were trying not to feel.
As the time came to decide who would do the dance to avoid the other, your eyes weren’t even on me. Instead, you approached head on and kneeled to pet my dog.
You said my dog was the cutest thing you’d ever seen as if he was responsible for that. How big of an asshole are you? My dog is a dog. He doesn’t understand what you’re saying. I, however, am a person, mostly, and do understand what you’re saying. If you tell me my dog is cute, you better be giving me all the credit. After all, I basically gave birth to him in that metaphorical, delusional dog mom way. Is your kid cute because he earned it? No. He’s not even cute. He’s an asshole just like you.
You may have noticed the dead face I gave you, or perhaps the series of not so subtle middle fingers I threw up behind your back once you walked away. For that, I apologize. Passive aggression runs in my family. Also, I totally fucking hate you.
Should we meet again, I will be sure to remind you of this incident and force you into a sarcastic apology so that I will have something else to write about on this blog no one reads. Why? Because that’s called planning ahead.