One day, Chris Doyle and I talked on the phone for about two hours.
This is significant because Doyle and I don’t generally chat on the phone. Usually, Chris calls me to ask me to do something or to tell me important things while he knows I’m sleeping, because A.) Docile and sleepy = less murderous, B.) He will generally get me to do what he wants, and C.) I’m pretty sure he just gets some sort of sick pleasure out of waking me up when I don’t want to be woken up. When we were in residence together, he and my friend Chelsea would habitually wake me up in the morning to talk to me, but he usually did it in order to get me to do things. He almost always got his way because I was too tired to tell him to leave. I remember hiding under the covers once when he was trying to wake me up.
I would literally hide under the covers to avoid him.
Either way. Yes. So. Conversation for two hours. I like to think it went on that long because we missed each other, but it may have just been mutual boredom. During that conversation, as I told him to visit me, we decided in a fit of giggles that the next time he visited, we would make ourselves mustaches and I promised cake and a Powerpoint with all the reasons why he should visit me.
GUESS WHAT WE DID.
WE MADE MUSTACHES.
(This photo is sad because it is the only photo I really have of me and Chris, and in it he looks sedated or like I used chloroform or something ((DOUBLE PARENTHESES: Also, totally didn’t actually sedate him)) as I try to lift my tiny arm over his shoulder and fail miserably. Thanks for ruining the only photo I have of us, Chris. Thank-you.)
I bought the construction paper and there wasn’t brown, unfortunately. Chris can pull off blonde, but I can’t. I had to look a little bit dyed. I still think I pulled it off.
Who am I kidding, I totally pulled it off.
Because I am brilliant and also an artist, I also tried to make Chris look like Bert from Sesame Street, which looked something like this:
I also tried to make him big, thick Bert eyebrows, but he said no and swatted me away for fifteen minutes and then tore my well-crafted Bert nose in half because Chris is a party pooper and a spoilsport and clearly doesn’t recognize artistic genius.
I also bought him a cake and even then he wouldn’t let me.
This is what I’m moving in with. This.