It was 2005, and you were a saucy little minx, and I knew it. We all knew it, given that "we" here means human beings with male genitalia. But Ted, the suit-less ninny, didn't know it because he was just so in love with you in the most stalker-like, most creepy of ways. He didn't realize that in the way you waggled your brows, the way you held your glass, even in the way you sat at our booth like you belonged that you vibrated sex and oozed dirtiness. It hummed from every pore of you. You reeked of pheromones—the female variety of which I can totally sense, by the way—and of someone who knew what she wanted in bed. Mm. Hot.
And I thought Ted was super stupid for not tapping that when he had the chance.
Instead he pronounced his love and threw three super lame parties hoping you'd show up to one. That sounded pointless. And boring. No sex, just talk?
No thanks.
Yet, lo and behold, you were generous enough to make an appearance; then later at the bar you made fun of me.
I mean, really? Carlos? Carlos, dressed like a dirty hippie and sitting with a girl in his lap? It was a recipe for disaster. They worked together! What did he have that I did not have?
And in front of my three closest friends, you said, "A date tonight." Lily told you to rewind, play it again.
A date tonight?
Well, Robin, I was not sure I liked you. God. Saucy little minx. I bet you looked good naked, tied to my headboard.
It was a good thing then that Ted wanted you so bad. Like Bro Code Article 5, Section 17 states: a bro shall not paw around another bro's sandbox, especially one with which he has fallen into deep, disturbing infatuation despite not having figured out whether it's full of spiders.