One of the projects I’m working on at the moment is an anthology. An anthology of awkwardness, to be precise. It’s basically a collection of funny stories concerning awkward balloons, turtles, starfish, you name it. I’ve realised lately just how many bizarre situations I land myself in, and even my close friends land themselves in, so I figured I’d share them with you, quite literally, for kicks and giggles. Enjoy!
The following is based on true events, but the protagonist of this particular awkward moment would kill me for publishing it, so names have been changed (or rather, excluded altogether. Apart from mine, I’m proud to be part of this story :D).
I’m sitting at my desk, locked into a staring competition with my computer screen. God damnit, write yourself! I mentally scream at the blinking cursor. I realise that this will get me nowhere and I will eventually have to start doing something. I pull my notebook over and chew on my pen lid whilst constructing a spider-map of Italian Cinema and it’s influence upon today’s society. Then, typically, when I’ve just about managed my muster some motivation, it disappears with the flash of my phone.
“Cello…” I have several cheesy greetings for beginning and ending conversations.
“I need your help”.
“Oh god, is someone dead?”
“Are you at home?”
“I need you to bring me some spare trousers. I’m in Sydney Jones”.
“Em? It’s an emergency!”
“How can you possibly be in a situation that qualifies as an emergency when the only solution is a spare pair of-” And then it hit me.“Oh come on, man really? In the library? Can’t you guys leave each other alone for 5 seconds?”
“NO! No, it’s not that. But I do still need the pants so if Josh could give you a lift in his car…”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“Em, I just need the-”
“Not until you tell me what’s happened”.
“Can’t you just act in the knowledge that you’re doing me a huge favour?!”
“Of course I can, but I refuse.”
“You’ll see when you get here.”
“Just hurry up, ok?”. The line bleeps dead, and I fulfil her wishes and take a spare pair of chinos to her in the library, all the while receiving blasphemous messages telling me to hurry up.
As I walk through the scanners I call her, and she’s in the toilets on the top floor of the Grove Wing. I climb the various staircases, feeling that tiny bit guiltier for every person I see, at a desk or computer, lost in their work. Concentration has eluded me, making the library my least favourite place at the moment. Bunch of show offs.
I reach the toilets, and she’s there looking shifter than the San Andreas fault line. “Did you bring them?” she asks, a look of desperation on her face, as if I were carrying drugs. I hand her the bag, which she snatches and races into the cubicle.
It’s just a glimpse, I don’t believe it at first. They might not do their job properly but my eyes never deceive me. There, peeping out from the back of her trousers like it was a game of hide and seek, was the fleshy pinkness of a cheek.
My initial reaction? Spleen-rupturing laughter.
“STOP LAUGHING”. I ignore her completely. “SERIOUSLY EM THIS ISN’T FUNNY!”
“In whose universe could this ever not be hilarious?!”
“I hate my life”.
After I calm down and take paracetamol for my aching sides, she proceeds to tell me that upon entering the library earlier that day, she had dropped some books. As she bent down to pick them up, she heard the sound that nobody ever expects or welcomes. The rip ran all the way from her crotch to her arse.
The entire debacle makes my day, and I promptly head home and pick up my laptop, only to be stopped in my tracks by a message threatening the death of my first born if I publish it.
“What if I change the names?”