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Op-Ed: We Should Not Get a Meal Sometime

Oh my God, hi! It’s been so long! Crazy that we ran into each other, right outside Paresky at 12:30 on a weekday—what a coincidence!

What? You think we should get a meal sometime, to rekindle the dying spirit of our friendship, fostered two weeks ago when we stood next to each other in line for our course packets?

Hmm. No thanks!

What? Oh, I said “No thanks!”

Yeah, everything is so crazy right now! But that’s not why I don’t want to get a meal with you. Sure, I have work to do, but I’m still eating food. Did you actually think that I literally didn’t have time? Get your head out of your ass. I have time. I get meals. I just won’t get one with you.

Oh, don’t get me wrong—you’re totally on my list of people who I’d want to get a meal with. You’re just not in the top, like, hundred. And there’s only 21 meals a week, and that’s not even counting repeat meals with people I actually like. For reference, you’re like four tiers below them right now. And the tier system only goes to five.

Look. It’s not that you’re unlikeable. It’s just that I, personally, do not like you. At least, not enough to spend 45 minutes at a sticky picnic table asking you what classes you’re taking and hearing about your idiot boyfriend, who, by the way, looks like that gay lizard from Monsters Inc. I mean, we can chat in line for food if I have nothing better to do—I’m not without pity. But a whole meal? I think I’m gonna have to pass.

It’s just that this past year has really put things into perspective for me. Like, people are dying. Literally dying. Life’s short, you know? And I realized that I have to make the most of it.

Coincidentally, I also realized that I’d rather stick my hand in a blender full of basil, garlic, olive oil, pine nuts, and parmesan cheese than waste my precious breath on a conversation about your assignment for intro poetry class. You’re not good at poetry. I mean, a sonnet? Really? Get a grip.

Oh. Oh no. Please don’t cry. Not for my sake—I have no emotional connection to you and your tears mean nothing to me—but you’re embarrassing yourself. It’s nothing personal, I promise. I’ve done this to like 6 people this week alone. Jeremy asked me to go on a walk with him the other day, and I literally spat in his face. Then I called his mom, and told her that Jeremy smokes weed, and she pulled him out of school. Also, I set his bike on fire. And he’s in tier three!

Ok! Ok, fine. If it makes you feel better, I will publicly agree to get a meal with you next week, as long as we both understand that this is a mere formality, and that I don’t really mean it, and that I will be canceling on you the second I come up with a coherent excuse. Stop crying, dammit! It’s a good offer. Now. Do you accept these terms?


Follow my lead.

OH MY GOD, yes! Next Thursday is perrrrrrrrfect for me. And the weather’s supposed to be great—30 and raining! So nice. I can’t wait to catch up! Haha, ok. See you then!

Are they gone? Good. God, I fucking hate that kid.


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