[For those of you who don’t know who my metrosexual best friend Kenny is, please read this post. Then do yourself a favor and get a clue.]
Most of you may have noticed I’ve been on a bit of a happiness protest this year. Well, hopefully this helps to explain things a bit. I was going to title this post: News Worst Than AIDS. Then I thought that was a bit too dramatic, even for the Kenny Chronicles. Regardless, please keep reading and stop judging me.
[rolling up to the Wendy’s drive thru, sometime last May]
Kenny: Um…. yea. Can I get a double bacon cheeseburger, and can I try a, um, frosty twisted coffee toffee. I mean, an uh, coffee frosty twisted mocha thing.
Me: No, no. There’s nothing mocha about it. It’s A COFFEE TOFFEE TWISTED FROSTY.
Kenny: Ugh. Whatever. Can I get one of those frosted coffee drinks? [turns to me] Whaddaya want?
Me: Ok. This is very important. I want a Jr. bacon cheeseburger, plain, with lettuce only. You have to say it like that or they will put condiments on there, and mayo makes me throw up.
Kenny: Can I get a Jr. bacon cheeseburger with just lettuce, please?
Me: Tell them plain! You have to tell them plain or they’ll put the mayo. I CANT eat mayo.
Kenny: Oh chill. They know what I mean.
Me: Oh. My. Gosh. I’ve been dealing with this my whole life, I know how it has to be done.
Kenny: [hands me the bag of food]
Me: Ok, just let me check it real fast.
Kenny: Um, no.
Me: What do you mean no?
Kenny: We’re not those people.
Me: Those people, who?
Kenny: Those people who hold up the line cus they are double checking the food. It’ll be fine.
Me: [as we’re exiting the parking lot] Hmmm. Interesting. MAYO! ….Turn the car around.
Kenny: Seriously, there’s mayo on there?
Me: Seriously, when will you EVER listen to me? [hands him the sandwich]
Kenny: Can’t you just scrape it off?
Me: No, I can’t SCRAPE IT OFF. The taste infiltrates everything. I hope you know that you are going back in there to get me a new one.
Kenny: [stuffs a handful of fries into his mouth] But I’ve already started eating!
Unfortunately, this is one of the last memories I have of Kenny and I before he left me for some younger, more attractive and aquatic state. California that is. Oh wait, you didn’t know that?
It was a month before this very incident that he broke the bad news to me. I remember it as clearly as that day I walked out of the bathroom in third grade with toilet paper tucked into my tights. Kenny was sitting next to me on my couch he mentioned something to this effect [I can’t remember the details as I went into a three-month coma afterwards]:
Kenny: So, I think I’m moving to San Diego.
Me: [bursting out in laughter] I’m sorry, what?
Kenny: No really, I have some opportunities out there.
Me: Is this sorta like that time you were gonna “move” to Virginia with whatsherface?
Me: Well, what the HEAL does San Diego have that our town doesn’t?
Kenny: Warm weather. New people. The Ocean.
Me: Oh, so you’re gonna move to one of the most expensive cities in California, in the middle of a recession, with no family or friends to support you, and you’re gonna leave me here with all these losers? Don’t do it. Remember the sandwich? You should really start listening to me.
Me: Get out of my house.
And before I knew it, I found myself rolling up an ungodly amount of metro ties and placing them into Kenny’s suitcase. As I was laying on his bed, covered in hair from his insanely obese and elderly cat Beretta, I found myself speechless. How on earth would I stand this godforsaken town without Kenny around? He made everything bearable. We looked through old pictures, talked about all of our crazy times, and all sorts of sentimental stuff that I’m not usually comfortable with.
The next morning, he was off to the friggen Southwest. Since I’m not the best at goodbyes, confrontations, or sports, I opted to leave a few hours before departure. As we hugged goodbye, our conversation pretty much summed up everything:
Kenny: Sorry this is the way you have to remember me [points to his hair] I look terrible.
Me: Um, please, [pointing to my face] do you see these bags under my eyes?
Kenny: Ugh. I’m gonna miss you like crazy.
Me: You have no idea. [hugging, starting to tear up]
Kenny: Now don’t start crying. Then I’ll start crying and you’ll make my fake tan run.
Me: Well, maybe next time I see you, it’ll actually be real.
And that, my friends, was the start of my spiraling depression. Please direct all outbursts and fury over lack of blogs/commenting toward Kenny.You can check out the photo shoot we did before Kenny left me here…
To check out slightly more uplifting installments of the Kenny Chronicles:
How To Talk Yourself Out Of Dating Almost Anyone
A Metrosexual In A Yankee’s Hat
I Hate People Who Smell Like Breakfast
How We Met
A Conversation At Starbucks
A Bad Gordita And Some Classy Water