by David Morgan
“The friend zone,” Chad looked back at the others across the fire with smugness, “that’s all this is—he just took his first steps up yet another ladder of friendliness.”
“You think so?” Randall asked.
“Of course,” Chad responded, “it’s highly dubious that a girl like that would like a guy like him.”
“Why? What’s wrong with him?” Johnathan asked, “He’s a nice guy.”
“Don’t be naïve. Girls of our generation don’t like nice guys,” Chad spat the words, as though the very thought of being considered ‘nice’ was contemptuous to him. He cast a sideways glance to the direction of the group where Kara had just disappeared.
He continued, “We were born in the wrong time. We’re gentlemen, classy and refined—we haven’t adopted the parlance of our peers and we refuse to conform to their disgusting habits,” he sat up, feeling noble, “girls of our generation—our miserable generation—are just entitled, ungrateful, friendzoning sluts that only want to hook up with dickheads while they cry on our shoulders,” his rant had turned venomous, “well I’ve had enough of this shit.” Johnathan and Randall nodded in silent agreement, staring into the fire.
“Forget chicks,” he declared.
“Forget ‘em.” the skinnies echoed in affirmation of the revelation.
“We don’t need them.” And then Kara’s familiar laugh rang up again, echoing from a short distance away.
“Let’s just do our own thing!” Johnathan declared.
“That’s right,” Chad nodded. “With women—without them—who cares? We’ll do what we want and not play by their rules. We’re going our own way.”
“Men going their own way.” Randall added thoughtfully.
“I’ll drink to that.” Chad said as he downed another beer.