Tuesday, April 8, 2014


            I decided to call my friend Melanie (not her real name) last week because I hadn't heard from her in a while.
            "Hey," I said when she picked up, "How have you been?"
            "Good, you?"
            "Doing great," I said, "What's new?"
            "Oh, not much."
            "How's your family?"
            "Everyone's good, thanks," she said.
            I wondered why I wasn't getting much of a response from her as she was usually quite chatty. In fact, she seemed rather cool towards me. I racked my brain trying to think of what I might've done to deserve that. Finally, I just asked.
            "Are you mad at me for some reason?"
            "No, not mad."
            "Okay…then, why do you sound mad?"
            "Well, to be honest with you, I'm trying to be careful about what I say. I'm afraid you might write about me in one of your essays."
            "What are you talking about?" I asked.
            She sighed. "I know you were referring to me when you wrote about people who dote on their pets too much."
            "No, I wasn't!" I protested.
            "And," she went on, "You were definitely talking about me when you wrote about your friends with annoying food allergies."
            "I swear that wasn't about you!"
            "And when you wrote about people's phobias? Me, again."
            "No, wrong," I interjected, "Did I even mention your phobias?"
            "And the worst one was when you made an example out of my procrastinating. I'll never live that one down."
            "But, Melanie, I wasn't writing about you at all, I was writing about me, my procrastinating!"
            There was a long pause.
            "I see," she said quietly.
            "So, are we good?"
            "Not really," she said stiffly.
            "What's the problem now? I asked.
            "Isn't it obvious? You think I'm too boring to write about."




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