M. Night Shyamalan (yes, I had to google how to spell his name), director of the Sixth Sense, the Village, and Signs could not have created a greater plot twist than what I experienced last Wednesday night. But instead of seeing dead people or (spoiler alert!) realizing I was a dead person myself, I had my heartbroken… Which is much worse.
In a matter of moments, I went from thinking I was the “KING-KONG-OF-THIS-B*TCH” (read in Denzel Washington’s voice from the movie Training Day) to debating whether or not I should walk into oncoming traffic.
Sure, I’d heard the saying “grenade”* before, but I never thought that I was… well, a grenade.
It’s a great plot twist.
Urban dictionary defintion of grenade: The solitary ugly girl/guy always found with a group of hotties. If the grenade doesn’t get any action, then neither does anyone else. AKA someone has to take one for the team.
It was Thanksgiving Eve of all nights – A night for the ages: Filled with reunions, laughs, drinks, and friends. It was a Holiday I always used to associate with good memories, used to.
Then I met Jan (her name has been changed, to conceal her identity for the five people who read this blog).
Disclaimer! Before you continue reading, I must warn you, this one of the scariest bar stories ever told…
Are you really going to keep reading? Alright just don’t forget to turn on your night light...
‘Twas 2:00 AM at the local dive bar on Thanksgiving morning. Until that point I was having a great night: I had only spent $40 at the bar, I hadn’t been slapped by anyone, I wasn’t too sober or too drunk, I had talked to three females and got two snapchats,* which was my version of Michael Jordan’s Game 6 in 92’.
I felt like I could conquer the world as I made my way to the bar for a White Claw manly, strong, and tasty Budweiser. Then I saw her and I was sucked in – like a tractor beam.
I didn’t know she was evil and had a heart of coal when I first introduced myself to her, you never do. After a few pleasantries were exchanged, things started to heat up when she offered to buy ME a drink. I was flabbergasted. “Man, this whole feminism thing is awesome”, I thought to myself as she ordered us two Jack and Cokes. I was a pig walking into slaughter and she had me right where she wanted me.
In between swigs of my god-awful drink, my friend snuck up behind us and began talking to Jan’s friend, making it a makeshift “double-date” of sorts. For some men, they might not want the extra testosterone in their vicinity, but I’m a “rising tide raises all boats” kinda guy so I was glad to see it. Plus, I’ve always rationalized with myself that the reason I never “got girls” was because I was a better wingman, than post-scorer, so it was a win-win.
I smirked as I spun back around on my barstool and continued to conversate with Jan. 10 minutes pass. 15. Then 30. Finally, the lights at the bar are turned on and it’s time to make my move. I ask her for her snapchat and she happily* abliges before handing me my phone back. As I start to walk away I double check to see if the snapchat name is real… It is. “We are in buisness!” Or so I thought.
As I was walking with my head in the clouds, I looked over and see my friend and her friend exchanging laughs and what I perceived to be phone numbers. “One for the good guys” I whispered under my breath as I smiled and fist-pumped to myself.
*She deserves an Oscar or atleast a Golden Globe for her acting throughout the night, Meryl Streep would be proud.
In Jim Valvano’s famous ESPY speech, he preaches “If you laugh, you think, and you cry, that’s a full day. That’s a heck of a day. You do that seven days a week, you’re going to have something special.” I only realize now what a crock of sh*t that whole speech is.
As I (love) drunkenly stumbled into my DD’s car, I was head over heels in love. I could see the wedding, the children, the farm all flash before my eyes. As I sat planning out our wedding in my mind ( What color suit should I wear? Do we get a DJ or a live band?), I unlocked my phone and opened snapchat, so I could get her opinion on whether “we should have blue or red roses at the center of the guests tables at the wedding”. Then it hit me as I tried to send a snap… It was indeed a fake account.
I was devasted and not in a “I just lost a college football bet” type of way, but more like throwback-Akon-esque-lonely.
Even though I could barely see out of my tear-soaked eyes, I did some research (this is a tad bit creepy, I will admit) and I found her on Facebook… She’s had some douchebag named Jason as her boyfriend since 2018. Confused, I asked my friend to check and see if he had any better luck with her friend and he did. Everything was real: Her snap, phone number, and she had even sent him little emoji hearts after leaving. Weird, I thought to myself inbetween bites of my McDonald’s drive-through fries. Then everything started to add up, I was the grenade. Jan occupied my attention through her Oscar-Esque acting and drinks so her friend could talk to my friend. She jumped on the grenade for her friend. A noble act, I must say.
After the initial shock, I went through each of the remaining seven stages of grief:
Denial: Maybe she just accidentally typed in the wrong snapchat name and hasn’t changed her relationship status on Facebook yet.
Anger: F*** that B****! How dare she? Does she know who I AM? KING-KONG ain’t got sh*t on me!
Bargaining: Maybe she will hit me up when she breaks up with her boyfriend.
Depression: I’m never going out again, I can’t risk getting hurt like this.
Testing: Ah, you can’t win em all. Don’t let it get to you.
Acceptance: I am a grenade, from this moment forward I cannot leave the house without a “G” painted on my forehead, just like Emma Stone in “Easy A”. This is life now.
It took me a while to realize I had been “Shyamalan-ed”, but when the thought of being a “grenade” finally registered, I realized I have a new calling in life.
I’m the grenade and it is my duty to be there for my brothers on the battlefield. Hoo-ah!*
*Who am I kidding? This is the absolute worst. I now know how the ugly duckling felt and I wouldn’t wish this feeling on my worst enemy, even Mark Dantonio.
Extra Credit:
Fatstacks 
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