Simone had been our friend since our college days. And she was kind of a bitch. She was the type of friend who made it a point to constantly talk about herself and all of the wonderful things in her life while finding a way to tell you awful things about yourself.
I often wondered why we still considered her a friend.
Abby: I saw her out and about yesterday while I was running errands.
Jen: How many times did she passive aggressively offend you?
Abby: Ten, but then again, she didn’t have a lot of time. I made up an excuse of being late for a doctor’s appointment.
Abby: Oh wait, make that eleven. She got one final dig in before I all but sprinted away. “Oh, are you seeing a dermatologist for that horrid mole on your cheek? I’ve always wondered if you were getting that looked at.”
Jen: Jesus. Is she still using that British accent?
Abby: Yes.
Me: I don’t understand the accent. I mean, she grew up in SoCal. Her family is from Alabama.
Abby: Apparently, she just got back from Paris. Where she is currently working on a clothing line with Ralph Lauren.
Simone was also known for being a bit of a liar.
Hmmm… Sounds like someone else I know…
Nope. Never mind. I refused to even think his name.
Me: God. Ralph Lauren isn’t even based in Paris. They’re in New York. And wouldn’t residing in Paris support a French accent?
Jen: I have no idea how she keeps up with all of the lies. I mean, the last time I saw her, she told me Bon Jovi gave her a ride home from the airport.
Me: That doesn’t even make sense. Bon Jovi is a band. The whole band gave her a ride home from the airport?
Jen: Do you think I even tried to question it? I didn’t want to be taken down that bottomless well of lies. I might never have gotten out. I mean, she would’ve ended up telling me she had afternoon tea with Jenny from the Block.
Abby: Dude. She goes by JLo now.
Jen: Whatever.
Me: I honestly feel bad how much I really can’t stand Simone.
Jen: That’s because you have this internal need to please everyone.
Me: I can’t help it. And plus, she always appears so aloof to the fact that she comes across as a complete asshole. I just don’t understand how someone could be so blind to the fact that they offend literally everyone.
Jen: You know she’s going to call you and want to hang out.
Me: I’m not answering her calls.
Abby: Liar.
Me: I’m not! And like you guys should talk. Last time she was in town, I met you guys for lunch and she was there. I know for a fact I didn’t invite her.
Jen: That doesn’t count. She just so happened to be at the restaurant and sat down at our table. She basically crashed our lunch.
Me: And yet no one had the balls to tell her she wasn’t invited?
Abby: I think we need to just stop answering her calls and texts. We gotta cut the cord. Release that poisonous viper from our veins.
Me: Ugh. That sounds really harsh.
Jen: And talking about her behind her back isn’t harsh?
Me: True. But, in our defense, she isn’t exactly nice. I mean, last time I talked to her, she told me she was really proud of me for having the strength to still go out in public with the “horrid” dark circles under my eyes. I WAS ON A DEADLINE.
Jen: God, she’s awful. Maybe one of us just needs to tell her. Like, hey, Simone, you’re our friend and all, but you’re just like too shitty of a person for us to continue to be friends with you.
Me: Not it!
Abby: Not it!
Jen: Real mature, bitches.
Me: Good luck, Jen. Tell me how it goes! Chat later! Love you!
Abby: Same! Love you guys! Byeeeeee!
Jen: I’M NOT DOING IT, ASSHOLES.
Jen: Hello?
Jen: Did you guys seriously just do that?
Jen: Ugh. Bitches.
Poor Jen.
But in my defense, I wasn’t very good at confrontation. I oftentimes did everything possible to avoid it.
When I was sixteen, I had attempted to tell a girl named Melissa what I really thought about her telling everyone at school I was easy. Which was preposterous, considering I had spent most of my teenage youth inside my parents’ basement watching Gilmore Girls and reading Jane Eyre.
But the “Lola is easy” rumor had ticked me off, and I had been ready to rumble…with words, of course. Teenage Lola Sexton wasn’t going to back down; she was convinced that day was going to be the day she stood her ground and confronted someone.
For lack of better words, it had been on like Donkey Kong.
If an awkward hello, a moment of panic, and handing Melissa a baggie full of fresh blueberry muffins made by my mother was considered “on like Donkey Kong,” then I had confronted that chick like a goddamn professional.