Illustration by Bob AulWhen I first met you the other night at the bar, I liked you. You seemed friendly. That's why I was joking with you. You see, I was being sarcastic when I said that irritating guy who was trying to talk to us had just stolen a minute from your life—a minute you'd need when you were an old woman on her deathbed trying to say goodbye to your grandchildren. That's called a joke. I was not trying to insult you or in any way make fun of you. I was not flirting with you or hitting on you. I was trying to make you laugh. There was no reason for you to turn into the psycho bitch from hell. Sure, you were correct when you pointed out that I had no way of knowing if what I was saying was actually going to happen—that, too, is part of the nature of a joke. And it was no reason to yell in front of the rest of the bar that I was full of shit; that I needed to shut the fuck up and get the fuck away from you. Your behavior astonished even your perfectly nice best friend. Why you became so angry and obnoxious is a mystery to me. Why you are single is not.
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