Oh, Stampede time.
Those 10 glorious days with copious amounts of alcohol, questionable decisions, and walks of shame. The sidewalks are littered with sleeping bodies, and stomachs are forced to intake parts of animals best left castrated, not ingested.
This year however, it appears to be the time that every guy I’ve ever dated who has ghosted on me, has now come crawling out from under the rocks they were previously hiding under.
It started out with a B.C. fling from two summers ago asking if I was going to be around for the Stampede. Apparently, he was in town for the 10 days of debauchery and wanted to reconnect. I gave him a hard pass, citing my relationship as the reasons why I couldn’t meet him at his hotel for a drink.
I could have listed any number of reasons as to why I wasn’t going to grace his presence, but the ‘I don’t want to because you’re a creep’ excuse just opens up too many avenues for conversation. I heard nothing further from him, and this time, his sudden disappearance was welcome.
I had a text message come through later around midnight on from none other than Mr. Pickles — ‘How’s you?’ Well Pickles, I was sleeping, and you’re texting me out of the blue after a year of silence. I responded in the morning with ‘the midnight text, eh?’ and received a sheepish response.
Just to complete the trifecta, Siri decided that my life wasn’t dramatic enough, and threw me under a bus.
I was driving responsibly and told her to call my mom, but instead dialed the Clown. I hastily hit the disconnect button on my steering wheel, but Bluetooth had other ideas and put the call through anyways.
When I arrived to the grocery store, I had a text waiting from him: ‘Did you call me??’ Thanks Siri, I’ll figure out how to deprogram you later.
Of course, because this is Stampede time, one could only assume that I was reaching out to him for the same reasons B.C. boy and Pickles were contacting me — get together, have some fun, see where things go.
He asked how I had been, and I once again brought up the relationship, along with my new living conditions (one roof, two people). However, instead of radio silence, I found myself knee-deep in worms, can in hand. ‘What does he do? How old is he? How long have you been together? What did you do with your place?’ The obvious answer to these questions would be ‘none of your business’, but I was curious — why the sudden concern over my life decisions?
Moral of the story: You may be inundated with exes for the duration of Stampede. Choose your words wisely.
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