DUMP DAY: my first dump(s)...
Happy DUMP DAY, y'all!
Charles here, wishing y'all the bestest first ever day of the dump. I'm here to remind you that there is a (small) world outside of the myspace-sphere, even though we exist in there too. And as much as I want you to log (ha! log!) onto myspace right now and invite Dwayne and myself to be your friends (seriously, we're desperate), the festivities of Dump Day are more important at this moment. There are probably a million poo jokes that I could insert (ha! insert!) here, but instead, I'm gonna let you in on a special couple of stories that will serve to inaugurate this weekly spectacle. Ladies and germs, without further ado, here is the story of my first dump(s).
Part One: Charles + Wendy
Picture it, friends: 1993. Or maybe it was 1994. My memory is foggy about the year, but I was definitely in grade 8, and it was definitely the spring time. I had spent the winter growing sparse pubic/armpit/facial hair to protect myself from the cold, but the hair came with hormones, and I was overflowing.
It was a time of Marilyn Manson, Nine Inch Nails, and Ministry, but as much as my ears were filled with dark music, my heart was filled with joy. For it was that spring that I was welcomed into the dating world by one Wendy Wednesday. At first, it seemed like a match doomed to failure. She was the sporting type, while I was a greasy (and I mean greasy) metal-head.
I think we I asked her to "go out" with me on a Friday. Now, "going out" didn't mean we were actually going anywhere. It really was just a title. I asked if she wanted to go out with me, and she said yes, so we were "going out." That was all there was to it. In the time that we were "going out", we only ever hung out at school, playing a bit of hackey sack at recess.
It was the best of times that morphed quickly into the blah of times. A week or so after I asked her out, I think on the following Thursday or the Friday, Wendy told me over the phone that she didn't want to go out with me anymore. I didn't ask her for a reason, because I didn't really think that's what I was supposed to do. I just said okay, and we continued to hang out in pretty much the exact same way as before: very very casually. I think during our honeymoon week we had kissed on the lips a total of three times, with no tongue, and so it wasn't a big transition back to just being friends. Still, I felt a weird sense of rejection that took a little while to get over. It wasn't quite heartbreak, but it stung in a place I had never been stung before. Ha.
With Wendy, I was the dump reciever. It wouldn't be until a couple of years later that I would be the dump deliverer.
Part Two: Charles + Joan
Joan and I began dating in the aftermath of an awful relationship with someone who shall remain nameless, in late February of grade ten, whenever that was. I found her incredibly attractive, and we got along famously. She could fingerpick on guitar like nobody's business, and she was the one who taught me how to play "Stairway."
We dated for about four months, of which we spent most of our time lounging around parks or in Joan's room. We had a lot of good times and good laughs, a lot of long make-out sessions and a lot of ridiculous conversations. I think it's safe to say that it was a pretty positive growth period for the both of us.
And then, inexplicably, I started to feel trapped. Blame it on my stunted grade ten attention span, or blame it on the rain. Either way, I knew that I had to get out. Luckily for me, a friend of mine was going through a similar experience with his girlfriend at the time, and so we both decided to break-up with our girlfriends... It just so happened (purely by coincidence) that we ended up breaking up with them on the same day: Canada Day.
I truly felt awful that I had to break off the relationship so abruptly, but I knew it wasn't a crime to break up with someone, so I just did what I felt I had to do. That night, half in celebration of Canada Day and half in an attempt to feel less bad about our actions, my friend and I exploded a shitload (a dumpload!) of fireworks somewhere we weren't supposed to, and spent a good part of the night running away from police. The next day, Joan's mother called me because Joan was so upset, and her mother asked me if I would be willing to talk it over. I told her that I would talk it over, but I couldn't be in the relationship anymore. Getting the call from her mom was a powerful lesson in how far a breakup can reach. Joan and I ended up being friends about a year later, once the wounds had healed and the scars had gotten nice and tough.
And that, my dear friends, is how Charles gained his first experience in the ways of the dump.
If you've got a great story and great letters we'd love it if you shared. If you don't wanna do that, at least be our virtual MySpace friend. Please. We need friends. We're so lonely.
Send us letters. Make us happy.
We truly love you,
Charles + Dwayne.
Charles here, wishing y'all the bestest first ever day of the dump. I'm here to remind you that there is a (small) world outside of the myspace-sphere, even though we exist in there too. And as much as I want you to log (ha! log!) onto myspace right now and invite Dwayne and myself to be your friends (seriously, we're desperate), the festivities of Dump Day are more important at this moment. There are probably a million poo jokes that I could insert (ha! insert!) here, but instead, I'm gonna let you in on a special couple of stories that will serve to inaugurate this weekly spectacle. Ladies and germs, without further ado, here is the story of my first dump(s).
Part One: Charles + Wendy
Picture it, friends: 1993. Or maybe it was 1994. My memory is foggy about the year, but I was definitely in grade 8, and it was definitely the spring time. I had spent the winter growing sparse pubic/armpit/facial hair to protect myself from the cold, but the hair came with hormones, and I was overflowing.
It was a time of Marilyn Manson, Nine Inch Nails, and Ministry, but as much as my ears were filled with dark music, my heart was filled with joy. For it was that spring that I was welcomed into the dating world by one Wendy Wednesday. At first, it seemed like a match doomed to failure. She was the sporting type, while I was a greasy (and I mean greasy) metal-head.
I think we I asked her to "go out" with me on a Friday. Now, "going out" didn't mean we were actually going anywhere. It really was just a title. I asked if she wanted to go out with me, and she said yes, so we were "going out." That was all there was to it. In the time that we were "going out", we only ever hung out at school, playing a bit of hackey sack at recess.
It was the best of times that morphed quickly into the blah of times. A week or so after I asked her out, I think on the following Thursday or the Friday, Wendy told me over the phone that she didn't want to go out with me anymore. I didn't ask her for a reason, because I didn't really think that's what I was supposed to do. I just said okay, and we continued to hang out in pretty much the exact same way as before: very very casually. I think during our honeymoon week we had kissed on the lips a total of three times, with no tongue, and so it wasn't a big transition back to just being friends. Still, I felt a weird sense of rejection that took a little while to get over. It wasn't quite heartbreak, but it stung in a place I had never been stung before. Ha.
With Wendy, I was the dump reciever. It wouldn't be until a couple of years later that I would be the dump deliverer.
Part Two: Charles + Joan
Joan and I began dating in the aftermath of an awful relationship with someone who shall remain nameless, in late February of grade ten, whenever that was. I found her incredibly attractive, and we got along famously. She could fingerpick on guitar like nobody's business, and she was the one who taught me how to play "Stairway."
We dated for about four months, of which we spent most of our time lounging around parks or in Joan's room. We had a lot of good times and good laughs, a lot of long make-out sessions and a lot of ridiculous conversations. I think it's safe to say that it was a pretty positive growth period for the both of us.
And then, inexplicably, I started to feel trapped. Blame it on my stunted grade ten attention span, or blame it on the rain. Either way, I knew that I had to get out. Luckily for me, a friend of mine was going through a similar experience with his girlfriend at the time, and so we both decided to break-up with our girlfriends... It just so happened (purely by coincidence) that we ended up breaking up with them on the same day: Canada Day.
I truly felt awful that I had to break off the relationship so abruptly, but I knew it wasn't a crime to break up with someone, so I just did what I felt I had to do. That night, half in celebration of Canada Day and half in an attempt to feel less bad about our actions, my friend and I exploded a shitload (a dumpload!) of fireworks somewhere we weren't supposed to, and spent a good part of the night running away from police. The next day, Joan's mother called me because Joan was so upset, and her mother asked me if I would be willing to talk it over. I told her that I would talk it over, but I couldn't be in the relationship anymore. Getting the call from her mom was a powerful lesson in how far a breakup can reach. Joan and I ended up being friends about a year later, once the wounds had healed and the scars had gotten nice and tough.
And that, my dear friends, is how Charles gained his first experience in the ways of the dump.
If you've got a great story and great letters we'd love it if you shared. If you don't wanna do that, at least be our virtual MySpace friend. Please. We need friends. We're so lonely.
Send us letters. Make us happy.
We truly love you,
Charles + Dwayne.
2 Comments:
charles,
you're so creative and dump-worthy. i love you.
love,
dwayne
Charles,
You had me until you uttered two very dump-worthy words: Canada + Day. See, being the shotgun belonging to the Vice President of the United States of America, all I can do is point my patriotic barrel towards your country, and hope I can blast the Queen's image off of all of your strange coloured money.
We are much too chaste to relate to you Canadians here. Read. If you had only taken the pledge back in 94...
Post a Comment
<< Home