Best Friends Don't Kiss(2)

Still, for the first time since I got here, I glance around the room and take in how different my side looks compared to my new roommate Desi’s.

Truthfully, her small half of our dorm is pristine in its organization, and it looks likes Kate Spade and Martha Stewart got drunk and threw a freaking housewarming party before I arrived yesterday morning.

My side, on the other hand, is this weird, eclectic but definitely chaotic mix of art and prints and patterns that don’t really match.

Either Desi and I are going to get along splendidly, or halfway through the year, we’ll be the subject of a true-crime docuseries.

Fingers and toes crossed it’s the former.

When my stomach growls, I glance at the clock and see its already nearing ten in the evening. With my new roommate nowhere to be found and no other acquaintances to speak of, I’m not sure I’m ready to venture out into the big city at night all by myself. Since nourishment is now my main priority and the options within the walls of this room are limited, I pull out my hidden hot plate from my closet and plug it into an outlet behind my desk.

Per Columbia University’s rule book, hot plates and coffeemakers are a big no-no, but according to my dad, that’s just a ploy to get everyone to spend too much money at their various food and beverage vendors scattered across campus.

It’s capitalism at its finest, folks, he says.

I don’t know about all that, but what’s the worst that could happen with a hot plate? Hot soup?

A microwave would make things easier, though…

I make a mental note to buy one behind my dad’s back in the next couple days, pop open a can of Campbell’s vegetable soup, pour it into a small pot, and get it cooking on the hot plate.

It’s practically scientific fact that my sad excuse for a dinner is going to take a little while to heat up, so I grab my laptop and plop down on my bed to scroll through my emails.

There are a couple of spam subjects about enlarging my penis, so I skip over those to the first legitimate email.

Let me tell you, it is hardly any better.

My great-aunt Lily from my dad’s side of the family has a knack for the strange and unusual, and today, it comes in the form of showcasing random photos of her vegetable garden to our entire family. Ever the opportunist, her sister Poppy takes that odd but innocent message and drives it at a speed of ninety miles an hour onto Dirty Mind Lane.



Re: Fresh Vegetables!

Good Lord, Lil, why are you sending us pics of Don’s penis?

-Poppy



Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!

Don’s penis? What are you talking about, Poppy?

-Lily



Re: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!

Honestly, he’s bigger than I expected. Veiny too. Isn’t it Jewish practice to circumcise? Were his parents big on taking a religious stand or something?

-Poppy



Re: Re: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!

THAT IS A SWEET POTATO, YOU SICKO.

-Lily



I tilt my head to the side and examine the photo in question. Aunt Lily has one hell of a green thumb, but her photography skills have never exactly been good. Frankly, it looks like she used an actual potato to take the photo.

And that sweet potato does look disturbingly phallic-shaped…

I snort and keep reading, thankful neither of them has managed to figure out the difference between Reply and Reply All. Honestly, this is better than watching Laguna Beach.



Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!

It looks like Don’s penis.

-Poppy



Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!

I think I know what Don’s penis looks like a little better than you do, Poppy! And it does NOT look like Don’s penis.

-Lily



Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!

Fine. Someone else’s penis, then. Are you cheating on Don?

-Poppy



Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!





POPPY. STOP IT.


-Lily


Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Fresh Vegetables!

Imagine how I feel. Drinking my morning coffee. Scrolling through emails. And being forced to see your pool boy’s sausage.

-Poppy



My late grandma Lucie’s sisters’ relationship revolves heavily around Poppy doing everything she can to rile her sister up. It’s maybe not the healthiest thing I’ve ever witnessed, but I kind of hope it never ends. Though, just like all good things—including this email thread—I imagine it will have to at some point.

Real messages eventually sorted, I scroll back up to the top of my inbox to delete the spam before backing out of my email entirely and moving on to something else.

Facebook—a new website for college kids to connect with one another—is all anyone in my senior year of high school could talk about, and since I’m officially in college, I was invited to start my own account.

So far, I only have a handful of friends on here, but when I log in to my profile, I spot a little red icon that indicates new friend requests.

I take a swig of water as I click on it and, upon reading it, promptly spew a mixture of H2O and spit everywhere.



You have a new friend request from Callie Camden.



Holy shit. Callie freaking Camden.