Mean Girls

So the Barista attended a bachelorette party this past weekend that was, well, a train wreck, at best.  It is more fitting to describe it as Britney & K-Fed getting together to film season two of Chaotic (btw this may happen, fingers crossed).  Seriously.  Girls were fighting over who could get the stripper’s phone number.  Say it with me ladies….eeeeewwwww. 

More disturbing than the sweaty man-whore beast was the debacle that ensued the next morning.  Me and my Russian bestie headed around the corner for breakfast.  A few minutes later, a Tasmanian devil whipped into sight – fangs bared.  This devil was not happy that she did not receive a special invitation to breakfast.  She found fault with the general “who’s hungry – we’re going to grab breakfast now” sort of notice.  Two things are important to note here – me and the Russian know this chick marginally, and secondly, the Russian fought all her natural instincts and remained calm during the shit storm.  Let me stress again, we do not know this woman.  After a three minute tirade, the Barista eventually asked the Tasmanian devil to please calm down or go away.  The little monster chose the latter, called yours truly a biatch and then sent the following email.  My official response is in italics:

I know you basically told me to shut up but I need to tell you this for me.  But I need you to go away for me.

I am so completely shocked about what happened this morning. I’m not.  You both really hurt my feelings when you ditched for breakfast. You are crazy.   My feelings were hurt when you left without me. You are crazy.  I thought you would have wanted to hang out with me since we don’t get to see each other very often.  And when I told you that I was upset you didn’t even care. In fact, your reaction was to hurt my feelings even worse.  Uh, whaaa?

You act like we don’t have any history. We don’t.  Like we aren’t any kind of friends. We’re not.  Like my feelings didn’t even matter at all. They don’t.  Maybe it’s because I’m delusional and we really aren’t friends. Good job here.  We’re not friends.  If we aren’t please tell me so that I won’t expect that you’ll want to hang out with me like I want to hang out with you. We’re not friends.   Because that’s what it comes down to. I just really wanted to hang out with you because I like you all.  ?!?!?!

Don’t feel obligated to write back. I don’t.   I don’t want any drama so hopefully we can at least get to that point where it won’t be awkward. Hopefully I’m not delusional and it was just a bad morning and we can just go back to normal.  If by normal, you mean I only have to see you once every five years, yes.  Let’s be normal.

Meow!  I hope I didn’t just burn a bridge…I’d really like to know who wins the stripper’s heart.

 

 

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