To-Go To Hell
Monday, October 6th, 2008It took me awhile to learn my lesson of good boy vs bad boy. I always normally go for the bad boy. “Bad boy” meaning either the liar, the cheater, the jerk, the asshole, the manipulator, or the loser. Sometimes it could mean all of the above.
Omar had run over my heart with his fiesta orange colored clown car. He mocked my love. But for some reason, I was always really, really nice to him regardless. He was applying for another job and asked for my help in putting together a sales binder he needed. I used to only wish good upon him, so of course, I had no problem with helping. (Note: When I say I helped, I really did the book myself). His interview was coming up the next day (in Chicago) and he had to go to some dinner for his current job, so I said…just leave the stuff with me, I’ll handle it while you’re at you’re dinner and when it’s over you can come back over and we’ll finish it up.
He was so gracious he said he’d bring me back dinner since I’d be working on his report binder.
A few hours later he returns to my house, hands me a to-go box…and as I excitedly open it to see what’s inside, two little lonely grilled shrimp sat in there. He gave me his leftovers. Which he didn’t even really have much left over to give me.
Had I not spent hours working on that stupid binder, I would have shred all of the reports in my paper shredder, dumped the shreds into the to-go box and told him to-go to hell.
