I know how to friend zone and I know where it gets you, The Friend Zone. But as with many other instances in this strange relationship between me and The Object of My Pathetic (I hereby christen him TOMP), I hoped it would work differently, I hoped my nonchalance and liquid banter would show him that I am a comedic genius and he should probably do something before I lose interest. So imagine my despair when I was faced with definitive proof that my plans had backfired. I bid him adieu to which he replied:
‘peace out bud’
What?…No! That is NOT the desired result. NOT the reality I wanted. NOT fair. Honestly, I was anticipating a more gentlemanly response along the lines of:
‘Goodnight, sleep well’
Instead, ‘bud’ is what he went for. Touché. No reply would have been better…this isn’t entirely true…silence begets a psychosis in the form of obsessing over potential replies and reasons for the lack of said replies but at least I wouldn’t be drowning in the seas of my own naivety.
Part of me still wants to believe that this is some warped passive aggressive emotional clash of wits and we’re actually in the throes of an awkwardly subtle seduction. Though deep down I know I should have been more direct when I had the chance. Instead, I allowed TOMP to play the friend zone game in the more orthodox sense. I set him up in the perfect position to cut me down, to slice my tender heart in one fell swoop. In fact, I’ve possibly gone and got myself bro-zoned. Nice one. In that one sentence are the title deeds to my new condo in Broville, home to the ‘chums’, the ‘homies’…the ‘buds’.
Faux friend zoning is not the way forward, unless you want to be friend zoned for vrai.
The moral of the story, courtesy of Nike, is:
before I’m welcoming you as my new neighbour in Broville.