Unsaved Numbers
You notice you have a message notification. You sigh…
“WHO THE FUCK IS CONTACTING ME?” you reflect.
After seeing a string of numerals, you realize you haven’t saved this number in your contacts: Red Flag #1.
As you debate this intrusion on your free mind, you dive into this unsolicited electronic communication.
“Hey, I’m at Home Depot in Burlington and bumped into someone we worked with, Byron”
Ruh-Roh;
Red Flag #2: Former co-worker.
Wow, ummm, Rudy? I believe that’s their name. Or is it, Ricky? Hmm, thankfully you don’t actually care, or else this number would be in your phone’s telephonic memory.
It’s sad really. When people think you have their number saved…
AND THEN brazenly reach out to you to prod along this tenuous connection, at best. Usually, people reserve these types of interactions for social media DM’s, which are a little less personal but much easier to ignore.
But this…
Why are they holding on? Haven’t they moved on? Is there nothing more intriguing in their lives? Haven’t they done enough damage to my livelihood with their delusions of our faux relationship?
This may be hyperbolic, but they’re seeking to ruin our lives and realities, one text message at a time.
“WHY ARE THEY CONTACTING ME?” you ponder, now engulfed in a state of distress.
Honestly, there is a resounding notion that if you worked with, went to school with, or were on the same airport shuttle to LaGuardia, that is sufficient reason to exchange phone numbers.
“Oh, it’s just for emergencies,” they always say.
LIES!
For women, there will be exchanges subtly or overtly, creeped upon by a former co-worker from the Outback Steakhouse, who always wanted to throw you a party for your 18th birthday. Gross. It can happen in reverse too, with a female former co-worker from that summer when you worked at Red Lobster. Now, peppers you with memes and inquiries about when the two of you are going to “hang out,” while also confessing how cute she always thought you were back then.
Uh-Oh & Yikes.
You’re trapped.
What are your options?
Fake your death using a sex doll? Move to Bulgaria? And yes, of course, Slantchev Briag has beautiful beaches but what about the crimes against tourists? As you ponder the stability of Turkey as a destination, you are still no closer to resolving the unnamed string of numerals lightly harassing your existence.
Let us face the stark reality: when we work at a location, when we go to school somewhere—elementary, middle, high, college, Hogwarts—we are being forced to be surrounded by people (potential future digital deviants) that we did not hand pick or select; they’re just THERE…with YOU.
While in these environments, you can find commonalities, bonds, shared interests, commiserations, and unique joys as you are held hostage at your place of employment or a scholastic location. Make no mistake though, what’s really going on is that you have developed Stockholm Syndrome. You sympathize with your captors in these places. Your colleagues, your classmates, are under the guise of “peers” but really their intentions are much more insidious upon further analysis.
Stockholm Syndrome has 4 classic elements:
Traumatic Shock. You are shocked that you have to work or learn with these assorted buffoons. You don’t quite understand how you arrived in this predicament, or pickle, if you will.
Indoctrination. “We should go out for karaoke,” “We should meet up later and smoke at my condo,” “We should go to the movies on Tuesday,” WE SHOULD, WE SHOULD, WE SHOULD, they assert to you. Make no mistake, this is indoctrination at its finest. Before you know it, you’ll be mindlessly saying, “WE SHOULD…WE SHOULD…WE SHOULD…” as you go about your daily life. Neighbors find you roaming the downtown streets in a zombified, fugue state mumbling about going with work colleagues to a karaoke bar on Thursdays.
Isolation. You are around these shocking indoctrinators for hours on end. While you aren’t completely isolated from the rest of the world, they make it feel smaller. Always looking for a way to monopolize your time with requests to “do more studying” or “eat their juicy pussy like a hairy, wet snack.” You oblige. You go over to further work on the chemistry final AND eat coochie. Then she locks you in a cage in the spare bedroom of her apartment. Typical.
Promise of reward. All you want to do is graduate or move on to an employment opportunity that sucks less. Like wayyyy the fuck less. That’s your cherished prize-carrot that keeps you going. You’ll do anything to navigate the murky waves of these socio-professional seas you have found yourself submerged and afloat in. If your best chance of survival is to exchange some cellular digits and go to a Value Tuesday movie, then that is what you will do…
Your ultimate reward: ESCAPE.
There may be a rare minority of people met in these indoor, forced labor encampments, that transcend those places. Shockingly, these folks may actually result in a legitimate friendship, maybe even, a romantic partnership. This does happen, although it is exceedingly uncommon.
Usually, once you leave, that’s it.
You don’t need to contact any of those people again. What for? To get those elusive “drinks” that never happen?
The only legitimate reason to meet up with a former co-worker or classmate would be to bang. Folks, I have a word of advice—possibly the only actual advice in this text. Former coworkers and classmates (college & up) are a solid pool of candidates to bang. I said bang, not date.
Think about it: You somewhat know about their lives; you’re around them a lot, so you can gauge how annoying they can be; You have probably seen them in cute outfits; And if you have interacted with them enough, you should know if a vibe is already there or not. Do not attempt to woo an old work-school peer with vibe level of 0.0. That’s plain dangerous.
The only reason I have former collegiate pals and colleagues on my phone is to bang them after their respective relationships implode.
Once Upon a Time, I was fucking this horny-nerdy fellow grad student. She was such an incomparable social work nerd, but also a mega-super horny lil slut; the combo was truly amazing. She deeply cared for people and also deeply cared for consistent, intense dicking down.
And, OH MY GODDESS, she loved being eaten out. She was perplexed and shocked when I first offered. It’s as if I had spoken some unknown language to her. After that first time, she would maniacally chase me whilst thrusting her unsheathed crotch aggressively angled at my mouth. Like sheesh, can I take my jacket off first, Elizabeth?
She had selfish previous lovers who never dined at the Y for her pleasure. Thus, she was ecstatic and “over the moon” when I was enthusiastic about consistently offering said head activity. There was that one time when I was licking her lower lips and I guess her cat thought I was attacking her or something? Furry homie landed repeated paw-claw strikes on my right ankle. I had periodically extended my leg backwards to keep him at bay, while I finished up delivering some cunnilingus cumming to their owner.
And damnnnnn, she was loud too. Loved that as well. Her neighbor’s Wi-Fi network was called “We Can Hear You having Sex.” A little on the nose, ayyy neighbors? I’d name it “Next Door 2 Loud WHORE-31982.”
She did have an issue with kissing, though. Not the actually kissing itself but her head movement. I’m not sure if she was over eager or what, but she would give me static head butts. She was like a horny-ram. Pressing her forehead against mine hard af. It actually hurt and had to grab the side of her ears to cease her assault.
Overall though:
DAMN, what a Good Girl!
When she breaks up with her boyfriend—WE’RE GETTING DRINKS!
Edit: I found out she moved to California with her boyfriend for a new job after getting her PhD… I sense an imminent relationship implosion.
Back to our regularly scheduled program.
I guess when Ricky (Ronnie?) desperately needs to let you know he saw your former co-worker, Byron.
It’s okay, don’t respond.
Then move to Bulgaria.
***
From the forthcoming book, "That's Not Funny" by know1GNOSIS.
In theaters August 2025.