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Fuck Hater Bitches!

Friends,

Back in early 2010 I was 25 years old, almost a year back from Afghanistan, in my second semester of my third year of university, and dating a really pretty and sweet young girl named Chelsea. Chelsea was 18. We got along well and bonded over our love of the gym. We ended staying together for 5 years -it was a beautiful thing.

This post isn’t about Chelsea; this post is about sticking it to hater-ass bitches.

At this time, 2010, Chelsea was still living on campus in a residence. I would come visit her and often spend the night. Coming by after a certain time however, especially on the weekend, meant that I would have to get signed in. This was typically never a problem but one night I came in a little drunk from a party on a Friday night and hilarity ensued.

What went wrong?

First off, I suppose I looked like a shady defiler of barely legal girls in a vintage red leather jacket holding a couple of peacock feathers; feathers which, even now, I’m not quite sure how I obtained so late in Canadian winter (God, I used to be so cool!). Now at the time I could swear that the jacket made me look like Brad Pitt in Fight Club, but it’s also possible I was delusional.

Yeah, it was definitely the latter.

Second, my attitude probably didn’t help either: I am typically defiant when I need to show identification and the entitled attitude of student volunteers always came off as particularly irksome to me, as I had seen a modicum of authority take otherwise insignificant people for the worst in the military. In any event, the lobby sign-in was being staffed by some sophomore girls and guys who had turned their shift into a party with music and such. The lead girl had gotten quite the case of runaway self-esteem, taking the piss out of people who wanted to get signed in. I had texted Chelsea as I walked up to the building and as it usually took her a moment or two to reach the lobby, I walked over to the table.

The mother hen gazed inquiringly at me.

I gazed back.

She blushed a little, gave me the googly-eyes and then complimented my peacock feathers.

I thanked her and offered her one.

She took it and asked me who I was here to see.

I told her.

She asked to see my ID.

I obliged.

She looked at my ID, then up at me, then at the 1984 birthdate.

“You’re?…twentyyy….”

“Five!” I responded with a benevolent, though drunken grin.

“How old is Chelsea?” she asked.

“18.” I responded, just as good-naturedly.

“You’re …seven years older than her?!

“Awesome, right?”

She turned to her friend and I overheard her expressing concern to her friend that I was 25 and Chelsea was only 18, but just then Chelsea walked up looking as petite and sweet as ever. She smiled at my ridiculous outfit, and also because she knew I was a little drunk and this might have been her first time seeing that.

As Chelsea was a bit of a head-turner, the guys in the group started to take notice of me also. I don’t think they (the dudes) had a problem with me beyond the fact that I was an off-campus interloper coming into their house and having a slumber-party with one of theirs, but the girls were a little indignant.

The mother hen turned to Chelsea: “He’s your guest?”

She acknowledged this was so.

The mother hen screwed her face up a little as I walked by hands up, not guilty, free like OJ all day.

What could she do? I was an invited guest with ID, and a full-time student to boot. I told her to enjoy her feather and I walked past the ‘doorman’, having, to the best of my recollection, a wonderful rest of the evening.

Fuck hater bitches!

Best,
-Dre

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