Messages Left On Carly Rae Jepsen’s Voicemail
- Hey, I just met you. This is the guy with the grey beanie in the coffee shop from the other day. You said it would be crazy for you to give me your number, but here we are! So… hey. Have you seen The Hobbit yet? Well, call me back! Bye!
- It’s been three days… just thought I’d call again. Want to see The Hobbit on Sunday? I’ll be around. Also I know a really great Peruvian place by me. Let’s go! My treat. I googled you recently, too. You’re a big time star! That’s so great. Nobody else at PJ O’Flannigans believes me that I got your number. I told them how we met and everything. It’s so cool tha–
- Hey Carly, me again. Sorry. I guess I got cut off in the last one. Well, call me back. I’ll be around. No plans. Yep. Do you get text messages? Would texting be easier? Welp… call me back! See ya!
- Hey Carly, me again. It’s New Years Eve. I’m pretty drunk and you’re on TV.
- I guess you don’t want to see The Hobbit. Whatever. I heard it sucked. Bye.
- Hey, sorry about last night’s call. Calls. Calls plural. I’ll, uh, hey look, I’m sorry. I just need some clarification. I thought you liked me. You gave me your number. Is this what friendzoning is? Larry, he’s a bartender at O’Flannigans, he told me that’s what you’re doing. But I mean he’s 30 and lives in a studio apartment right by the freeway. Anyway. Call me.
- Hey I’m on break at O’Flannigans. Queued up your song on the stereo here! Got the whole album, actually! Call me, maybe! Ha ha!
- Got fired from Flannigans when Larry asked me to turn off your album. I punched him when he started playing The Eagles. Fuck Don Henley. That’s what I say. Anyway. I’m at home. Got a bottle of Jameson here and a pack of smokes. Call me. Maybe. HA.
- … (heavy breathing) ….
- Look out the window. See the payphone? I’m waving. It’s raining out here can you let me in please.
- CARLY. CARLY. CARLY. CAR–
- Hey. I’m in jail. Can you, uh, can you bail me out? Call me. Maybe.
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On the surface it sounds deranged, disturbing, and dark. But underneath that, beneath the act and the inflicted cut lies an untold story.
On the last day of my freshman orientation week in August, I went to my first college party. I had to dress to impress; that’s what the invite said.
A group of cool cats who sit cross-legged on a grassy knoll in the shade with chai lattes speaking about things that are so ironic it would make your teeth bleed.
I think there is a fine line between spunky and bitchy that many people cross without realizing.