© 2012 lefron glencoco

The Flake Who Cried Wolf

I have very few pet peeves.

1. Passive Aggressiveness
2. Beating Around the Bush
3. Making me Wait
4. Interrupting Others
5. a) NOT LISTENING TO RULES
5. b) Not Following Rules
6. Not Doing Something Because it’s Against the Rules
7. Flaking Out on Plans
8. Lies, LIES, LIES I TELL YOU
9. When What I Ordered at a Restaurant isn’t What I Expected
10. Overflowing Toilets

See, I don’t ask much. It’s really a matter of being considerate; the Golden Rule is far too overlooked, and as trite as it may be it applies to everything. Plus, it’s Golden. Would you like it if I continuously interrupted you while you tried to explain to me the rules of your favorite game, Settlers of Catan? Absolutely not. You’d get furiously frustrated, shoot short sharp responses to what I can only imagine to be my dull, irrelevant, and dimwitted questions, until eventually you’d grit your teeth and speak calmly as not to frighten me, “You know what, let’s just play the game and you’ll learn as we go.” I have ruined the game for you, and now the entire event is tainted with my stupidity and rudeness. Tsk Tsk.

Now let me make one thing clear for those of you who think I am a saint and could never commit one of my own pet peeves, for you see me in a heavenly light, floating above you in a silver gown and gently singing Elton John’s greatest hits in your ears: I am just as much at fault for peeving as those who smite me with their childishness. Shocking, I know. There are a few peeves I’ve conditioned myself to avoid; I’m a phenomenal listener, I’m always early, I follow the rules but I know when to break them (like stealing free cookies from the grocery store, thanks Safeway!), and I rarely tell a lie. (I almost said “never,” but that would be false. You see, I’m so honest.) That being said, I’m just as guilty as you low-lives for a couple of the worst peeves yet.

I’ve already blogged about my inability (its not like a handicap, it’s just hard for me) to say what I want, so we won’t delve into that pit of death again. Where I’d like to dig a hole, where I’d like to find the roots and seeds and unearthly stem, is under the god awful weed I call “The Flake.” The Flake tells you he’s coming to the bar at 10:00. At 10:30 The Flake tells you he’s on his way. At 11:00 The Flake tells you he got sidetracked, he’s leaving soon. At 12:00 The Flake tells you, “you know what, it’s too late, I’m not coming.” The Shittier Flake doesn’t return your calls, texts, tweets, FB messages, AIM messages, pages, or pigeon carriers, but at that point you’re an asshole because you haven’t realized your friend hates your guts and you’re a desperate loser who should get out of the Chatroom and join a rec softball league.

The Flake lives in all of us. He lives in you, he lives in me. He is that voice whispering in your ear, “Just say you’ll go, if something better comes up you can change your plans.” His whisper sounds a little like Dane Cook; “Say you’re attending that Facebook event so no one will bug you about going, then, DON’T GO.” He’s maniacal and convincing; “This couch is so comfy…my sister will forget I didn’t show up to her wedding in a day or two.” The voice makes us believe that if we give up the couple of hours the party will take, if we spend a whole day an hour away from the city on a hike, if we take a month off to travel to Norway, we will miss out on something back home.

I have a huge fear of “missing out.” I fear that if I take three luxurious months off of work or school, pack my important belongings in a backpack (underwear, camera, journal, bunny suit, a compact friend, and 92 Chocolate Dipped Coconut Luna Bars), fly to the Northern-most tip of Europe, dangerously (but with fervor and zest) trek my way South until I reach the Mediterranean, get incredibly tan and sprout the most delicate of freckles, meet old couples taking their last trip before they die, wishing only to see the planet that for 87 long years created and nurtured them until this moment, I will miss out on what happens at home. Three months seems like a long time to be gone, but when I think back on the two and a half YEARS I’ve been home since I left New York and how long ago it feels that I was a fat 142lb 19 year old with bushy eyebrows and no sense of style (have you seen me now? Snazzatron.) who was completely miserable and thought the highlight of my day was when Lifetime played Grey’s Anatomy from 1pm-5pm, I realize that three months is a heartbeat in the longevity that is my life to come.

The monotony of my day to day life has become a crutch; it’s now the stability I latch to when something unfamiliar comes along. It’s not that I might miss out on all the activities my friends will do without me if I’m absent, or the parties I won’t get drunk at, or the clubs I won’t be president of, or the gossip I won’t spread willingly, (okay, yes, I would be very upset to know that my BFF told my BF that her BFFLYLAS went to HG Lodge and got so drunk she LOLed in LMFAO’s face, who was oddly on Capitol Hill) it’s that I’m leaving the familiar and entering the unfamiliar. Let’s zoom out for perspective’s sake: if every weekend I pregamed in West Seattle, said I was going to take it easy, ended up getting smashed and going to the bars on Capitol Hill, cabbed home, and spent the next day mulling around the QFC, that would be my “familiar.” Keyword, “if.” On Monday you say, “hey Rachie bo bachie banana fana fo fachie, favorite girl who is so cool and pretty and smells like roses and sex on a stick, let’s play a pickup game of soccer this weekend.” And I’m like, “totally, inferior friend with less wit and charm, I’m game!” (Puns!) Then, come Saturday, I’m like, “yo, inferior, I’m too hungover, let’s rain check for another weekend.” Boom, I’m back in the QFC. Because it’s safe. Because they have security. And because they have powdered donut samples in the bakery, and I’m still 142lbs at heart.

Now let’s say every weekend I played soccer on Saturday, and you asked me to go out Friday night. Again, I could easily flake out on you because I don’t want to be hungover for my very important soccer game the next day. ALAS. What is my point? Such a wonderful question, I’m so glad you asked, because I wasn’t quite sure. Here’s my point: If you say you’re going to play soccer on Saturday, I don’t give two shits if you went out drinking the night before. You better put your fucking shingards on. If you would rather get hammered and eat donuts, that’s totally fine, but don’t commit to being my 9th player and leave me looking like the douche who said she had a fill-in for our star player who couldn’t make it because he’s in Cabo sipping Piña Coladas, like an asshole.

If you don’t follow through, if you become The Flake, I no longer depend on you, and Dependability is completely overlooked by our generation. Seriously, we find excuses to get out of everything. Well cut it out shitheads. I’m a shithead too, sometimes it’s hard to refuse an offer, especially if it involves Mayonnaise and Zac Efron, but if you know you’re not able to follow through (I SO WOULD FOLLOW THROUGH), just say you can’t. That way, when the wolf really comes to eat your face off, someone will believe you and that semi-pretty complexion of yours will be %100 safe, guarunteed.

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