This is my friend Alisha and me at Henry’s FORTIETH birthday pity party in 2005. I don’t know why my expression screams post-rubber cement sniffing session, but I am wearing a purple bowtie and that’s all that really matters.
Alisha and I hadn’t been in touch for a few years, but we reconnected recently and went out to lunch last Sunday. It was awesome to have a little bit of familiarity after all the changes that have going down lately. I guess I expected some tension, but there was none to be found. On my end, at least. After I forced a high-five upon her, we walked to the Elbow Room where we had super greasy grilled cheeses (the best kind) and reminisced about all the ridiculous memories of 2005, like when I talked her into going roller skating with me.
It’s a wonder that she ever came back for more, to be honest.
In other Twitter news, now that Henry is working this second job I talked him into signing up for Twitter so that my savory tweets can breathe some will to live into his weary soul. Or utterly disgust and annoy him, it’s hard to tell with him sometimes. He left it up to me, which is like giving a thief your PIN, and by Friday afternoon our little Henry became the proud owner of his very own Twitter account: A Woodhick. I even went ahead and added John McCain as his very first friend! I figured it’s the least I could do since it’s been a whole three years since I placed a personal ad for him.
He was not happy with the name I gave him. It’s a funny little story, really. (No, it’s not really.) But one time last year, we were watching some local show called Dave and Dave’s Excellent Adventures and on that particular episode, they were at some lumber thingie. I don’t really fucking remember, but I know that they were talking to some jackass who worked there and that jackass was all, “Yeah, we’re known as woodhicks.” And I started laughing because before I knew Henry, he was a delivery driver for a lumber yard. So in my most obnoxious manner, I was all, “Haha, Henry was a woodhick.” And of course, Henry had to bring logic to the table and remind me that he never actually cut down trees. But it was too late. The image of him as a woodhick, wearing a trucker cap with “WOODHICK” emblazoned on it in hot pink threading, was already seared into my mind. In some variations of this vision, he’s wearing suspenders.
I decided to change his name in my phone from “Asshole” to “Woodhick” but was not pleased when I realized this would knock him all the way down to the end of the list. So he’s in there as “A Woodhick.” (And to further anger him, I put “Gayblade Juice” as his company instead of Everfresh Juice, and his title is “Head Fag”.) God help me if I die when I’m with someone and they can’t find Henry’s number in my phone. I thnk about that all the time. I should really do that ICE thing.
Speaking of phone book entries, I was going through Henry’s contacts one day (he was sitting next to me, chill! I’m not one of those crazies who sneak peeks at their partners call logs/text messages when they’re sleeping. That’s creepy, even for me) and was a little disappointed to see that there were so many people listed above me. So I changed my name to Adrian to ensure I’d be #1. In fact, I think I should do this for all of my friends’ cell phones.
This concludes an intimate glimpse into my delightful relationship with Henri the Woodhick.