Like HPV, there are many strands of douchebaggery.  Along with Jeremy Piven, my least favorite HAS to be the ‘I knew them before they became mainstream’ douchebag.  Basically idiots without an identity other than googling underground budding nobodies (me) feel validated when a conversation luckily sways them in a direction where they can proudly announce to a dinner table, who begrudgingly invited them to begin with, “I loved Meryl Streep way before Devil Wears Prada.”  In which case, you have every write to slice their face open with the credit card you’ve been tapping impatiently while your friends split the bill whilst cursing their tortured ‘artist’ souls with ‘artist’ bank accounts. 

That being said, I vaguely knew who Lena Dunham was before GIRLS.  Yes, I do feel validated. 

She doesn’t know I exist and I somewhat prefer it that way.  However, ever since the launch of GIRLS, I keep imagining what it would be like to be her fag friend.  Needless to say, my projection of what our friendship might be ends in her slaying me with a samurai sword deleting me from facebook and then slaying me with a samurai sword.

Here’s why:

First meeting:

We would probably meet casually through a group of friends at a small gathering in the Lower East Side.  I’ll know who she is, but I’ll play it cool like I’ve never heard of her.  I’ll comment on how much I like her hair, her hourglass hefty silhouette and the empire waist she’s always forced to wear.  I’ll offer her a drink, and give her a quick wink.  By ‘quick’ I mean ‘small’, and by ‘small I mean ‘Asian’ because I don’t have much of a choice when it comes to eye expressions.  She’ll think I’m cool and not a total psycho (even though by now I’ll totally have texted every long distance friend in my phone book to make me seem cooler than I am, however, this will make me unknowingly  un-cooler because of the name dropping) and ask me what I’m doing tomorrow afternoon.  I’ll say, ‘Oh, totally booked, but whatsup?’ to not seem eager.  She’ll say her and her friends are going to the local flea market and perusing overused under priced taxidermy items.  I’ll say, ‘Oh cool, well we should meet up.’  She’ll give me her number, and I won’t call in hopes of being fodder for her fire/a subject of frustration/an allusion in an episode of GIRLS.

Second meeting:

We’ll bump into each other again in a couple of weeks with the same mutual friends present.  I’ll talk to her like nothing had happened and that I was too busy to call, when in actuality I was eating hot pockets in bed while watching GIRLS.  She’ll laugh it off, knowing that it’s only strike one.  I’ll laugh it off, knowing that all is going according to plan.  She’ll invite me out again, this time to a downtown one woman play in the lobby of someone’s building.  This time, I’ll call and arrange to meet up out front of our jail cell for the next 2 hours.  Throughout the show, I’ll be too timid to interject my own opinions on a woman’s broken hymen, so I’ll watch her reaction to the  show and react the same, supporting her decisions on what’s funny and interesting.  She’ll take out a notebook to jot down ideas for GIRLS, and I’ll lean in whispering, ‘This will be a whole lot funnier/relevant if a tall Asian gay guy had a reoccurring role.’  Because of our same opinion on dowries, we will become fast friends.

Third, Fourth & Fifth meeting:

These meetings will be sprinkled throughout the course of a week, we will have become fast ‘gal pals’ at assorted locations e.g. frozen yogurt, thai food, and dinner (we’re both fat).  We’ll share random anecdotes from our lives with meticulous detail, and laugh at common denominators in our story.  We’ll add each other on Facebook, making it official, and telling the world we are in fact friends.

Sixth meeting:

Will be over Thai food because we want to reminiscence over our fourth meeting and because we’re both tubs of lard.  The meeting will begin casual and friendly, after all, we are Facebook friends. About a half hour after we’ve ordered appetizers, I’ll slip into a ‘too comfortable’ friend zone and accidentally call her a raging cunt (out of jest, of course).  She’ll stop talking and stare at me, shocked that I would have the word ‘cunt’ in my vocabulary and would use it on such a tub of lard lady.  I’ll quickly realize my mistake and apologize by quoting Mean Girls (which is my only point of reference for anything, ever.  And the fact that Tina Fey wrote it, makes me feel like it’s okay, when it totally isn’t, I know. I’m gay) I’ll say, ‘Shutup, I don’t mean that.’  She’ll say to not to tell her to shutup.  I’ll say, ‘That’s not what I meant.’  She’ll fall into my ‘direct a conversation into unknowingly quoting movie dialogue’ trap and say, “You’re exactly like Regina George.” Taking it as a compliment, I’ll flip my hair and say ‘Thank you’.  She’ll storm off, offended and wondering how someone who has such a high caliber for judging people, can be so dense. 

Seventh meeting:

Seven ‘I love you Lena Dunham’ texts, with no reply.

Eighth meeting:

As I sit in bed with a hot pocket, I notice the SECOND she deletes me as a Facebook friend.

Ninth meeting:

I decide to conveniently ‘be in her neighborhood’ and walk over.  I’ll knock on her door with no answer.  Because I’ve been to her apartment before through the magic of Facebook pictures and Google, I’ll feel comfortable enough to let myself in.  I somehow missed the Ninja gene in my Asian nature and will accidentally knock over a fancy vase that pretentious kids who went to Princeton call a ‘V-oHz’ .  She’ll hear the loud noise in the living room and grab the samurai sword her dad bought for her from a recent two week trip to Japan for the Energy conservation company he works for.  (I’ll remember the specificity of this story from meeting number five).  Out of panic she’ll turn the corner and stab the first things she sees, it’ll be my heart.  She’ll curse Japan for their fine sword craftsmanship, but little does she know, she should curse Facebook for their fine craftsmanshit.

The Tenth meeting depends on whether or not God forgives me for all of the miscarriage jokes I’ve told.

My therapist says I’m not a crazy stalker creep.  I’m just a douchebag.

Fin.