Unsaved Numbers
You notice you have a message notification. You sigh; “WHO THE FUCK IS CONTACTING ME?”
After seeing a string of numerals, you realize this number isn’t 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 a 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. Red Flag #3—messaging you for no legitimate purpose or reason.
But this…
Why are they holding on? Haven’t they moved on? We worked together 8 years ago! 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 your life and reality, 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 with someone, then that is sufficient reason to exchange phone numbers.
“Oh, it’s just for emergencies,” they always say.
LIES!
For women, there will be digital exchanges where they are creeped upon by a former co-worker from the Outback Steakhouse. They 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 question the stability of Turkey as a destination, you are still no closer to resolving the unnamed string of numerals 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 even though you are being 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 they don’t completely cut you off from the rest of the world, they make it feel like a smaller place. Inculcated co-conspirators who are non-stop 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 within her hall closet, which for some reason smells of mangoes. 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. 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 can happen, although it is exceedingly uncommon.
Usually once you leave, that’s it.
You don’t need to contact any of those people. What for? To get those elusive “drinks” that never come to fruition?
Side note #369:
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 magnificent pool of candidates to casually bang—and 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. Don’t pursue an old work or school peer with a vibe level of 0.0. That’s dangerous, dear reader. You need at least a 5.4 out of a 9 vibe-age.
The only reason I have erstwhile collegiate pals or colleagues in my cellular device is to engage in intimate-nasty relations with them after their respective relationships end.
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 slut. The combo was truly amazing. She deeply cared for communities and also deeply cared to receive consistent, intense black-dicking.
And yes, if I haven’t mentioned this before, Writer-Fool has a master’s degree in social work. It’s immaterial to this story; however, it is an interesting footnote regarding the author of this offensive and insightful literary bouquet.
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 alien language to her. After that first time, she would 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 a consistent offering of said head activities.
There was that one time, though, 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 to keep extending my leg backwards to ward him off and keep him at bay while I finished delivering some cunnilingus cumming to its 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? Also, thoroughly passive-aggressive. Shaming someone via network naming is one way to go, I guess?
I’d call it NextDoor2TheLoudWHORE-314659 though. Her name wasn’t “Whore-314659,” by the way. But maybe some sex workers get identification numbers? Hmmm. We’ll let science sort that out.
She had an issue with kissing, though. Her head movement, not the kissing itself. I’m not sure if she was overeager or what, but she would give me static headbutts. She pressed her forehead against mine with substantial force. Kinda like a horny—slutty-ram. It hurt, and I had to grab the sides of her ears to halt her forehead assaults.
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 for a new job after getting her PhD… I sense an imminent relationship implosion.
Oof!
Thanks for sticking with us during this (somewhat) brief writer’s side quest-interlude-tangent. Back to our regularly scheduled program…
I know—that was A L O T—so let’s recap:
You don’t need to contact any of those people again. What for? To get those elusive “drinks” that never seem to happen?
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.