As told by Dana Milton

I was so bored that afternoon. Bored out of my mind. It was too early to have dinner, too late to go out. I didn’t feel like watching a new series, and I had no patience for my usual comfort shows. All my fuckbuddies were busy. All the webcomics I follow long ago read. All my college assignments were neatly done.

I was contemplating cleaning up the bathroom just to get off my ass and do something when I got a text message from my wonderful friend Eli. And what a magnificent text message! A life-saver request. The dude was crashing his best friend’s date with his girlfriend, who hated his guts. He wanted me to play the part of Emergency Plan Dude if it all went to hell. It was promising, oh, so promising. I immediately went to the kitchen to prepare a snack to enjoy the incoming angst. I sensed it would be needed shortly.

It was. As expected, given his horrible choices, Eli was knocking on my door not fifteen minutes later. Ah, the sweet scent of drama. It smells like popcorn and anxiety, and I live for it.

When I met Eli back in our conservative, hyper-religious private high school, all I thought was “Great, another queer kid. That makes two of us. We’re gonna become besties and stick together in the face of adversity now.” That was all I expected of him. A brother in arms to better cope with the incessant bullying and other joys of being a pansexual teen in a homophobic, narrow-minded environment. Maybe someone with whom to bitch and vent now and then. Nothing else.

I most certainly didn’t expect him to become such an unending source of rich entertainment.

I welcomed him with open arms. He didn’t disappoint. Flustered, royally pissed, wearing a hoodie fifty sizes too big, and sporting a legitimate dragon’s nest on his head.

“Oh, man! This gonna be good,” I sang, clapping my hands.

That was all the invitation he needed to let his tongue loose. Once he started bitching, there was no stopping him. He didn’t even need an audience. If I had to go to the bathroom or pick up the phone mid-rant, he’d go on prattling without me, and I’d miss the juiciest details.

“Don’t start without me! Don’t start without me!” I yelled, running to the kitchen. My popcorn was ready, I had just heard the microwave’s alarm. Eli stopped yapping and waited for me. Oh, man. It was gonna be good indeed if he actually wanted my input.

I rushed back to the living room, flung myself into my favorite couch, and filled my mouth with a handful of sweet bitchin’ popcorn.

Eli stared down at me, arms crossed, waiting for my signal to unleash the verbiage. He wasn’t in the mood for interruptions, so he clearly expected my full attention. I felt butterflies of anticipation in my stomach.

“Now, talk!”

And talk he did.

Eli’s woes usually had two main stars: one of his crappy boyfriends, or Nathan. More often than not, both. However, this time we had a special guest: Amanda. 

A couple of months ago, when Eli informed me with the fakest smile that Nathan had gotten himself a significant other, my left eyebrow raised so high it could have tickled God’s balls.

I couldn’t help but be insanely curious about the poor girl that had fallen into the bear trap that was Eli and Nathan’s dynamic, but Eli was not in the mood to chat about her. Even when he himself was in a very committed relationship, it wasn’t hard to tell that he still considered Nathan to be, well, his. He was not adapting well to the situation, and all his fakery had to be stored and saved to nonchalantly deal with Nathan whenever he felt like talking about the gal.

I did the wise thing and kept my distance from the whole ordeal. Eli would talk to me about it whenever he was ready, if ever; I was in no rush to get the tea. I know that slow and steady won the race. He’d yap eventually. 

Besides, I naively thought at the time, why bother? Knowing Nathan and his blatantly obvious, life-long infatuation with Eli, that relationship thingy he had pulled out of his ass was not gonna last.

And I can undoubtedly say I knew the guy. I knew him well, even if he didn’t have enough space in his hard drive to remember who the hell I was.

Get ready for flashback anecdote time, kids.