So last week, Jay and I had another of our “we can break up and you can take all my shit and we’ll still be friends” text exchanges that inevitably end in a reiteration of his true feelings about me being disguised by a statement using “hate” in some way with various adjectives and adverbs to help me better understand the many ways in which he feels this way (see Note about Why You Should Never Check Your Voicemail).
Jay: “Stop leaving pictures of jesters on my truck. It’s not funny.”
Me: “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And it was photo of Beyonce the Giant Metal Chicken, not a jester. And it was three weeks ago. I am so over you.”
Jay: “You’re insane. Why are you leaving me photos of giant metal chickens?”
Me: “I’m insane? Because it’s funny. One of the many things wrong with you is that you have no sense of whimsy or humor. You stifled me.”
Jay: “I hate you more than life.”
Typical. And senseless.
So on Monday morning, Baby Beyonce came to work with me.
She kept using swear words and distracting me, so I put her in the shoe drawer (see Note about The Great Shoe Meltdown Part II).
That’s what happens when you use bad words at a Catholic University. Even if you ARE Beyonce.
And then Wednesday, on my way home, I carefully staged this because I did not feel like picking up my almost 5 year-old from Pre-K:
Knock, Knock MOFO…and your truck is three sizes to big for you!
And then I forgot about it until last night’s bizarre exchange where he accidentally on purpose sexted me instead of his new girlfriend (and didn’t we have some fb fun with that).
So this morning I printed the photo above, and I swung by his place on my way to work (well, not really… I pass it every day so it’s not exactly swinging into a route I don’t travel normally (see? so not stalking!)), and I left the picture on the windshield facing in at him so when he gets in to go somewhere he’ll see a photo of Baby Beyonce with her “Knock, Knock, MOFO” tag sitting on his hood staring right at him.
Giant pick-up truck threes sizes too big for 5’7″ scrawny Philadelphia lawyer! For this, he gave up a BMW.
Next week, I need to be in the city, right near his office. Guess who’s coming with me in my Louis Vuitton Bag of Doom for a photo op on Walnut Street if he sends me ONE MORE TEXT? Oh yes, Baby Beyonce. Because her mission is to spread joy in others, except, it seems, Jay. In him, she inspires hysteria. I don’t know why.
I’m sure he’s probably getting a restraining order against me. Or the chicken. Or both of us. Meanwhile, she’ll continue to be my mini-chicken messenger.