My Bad Friend George

Note before we begin: Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

"Liz," George pleads. "When are we going to dinner?"
"I don't know George," I say matter of factly. "This week is pretty packed, but I think I'm coming down to Provo this week."
"Okay, so when are we going to hang out?" George's enthusiasm is apparent.
"I'll let you know when I know, George," I reply.
"Okay, so call me as soon as you know." George sounds like he'll have an anxiety attack if I don't give him an answer within the next 3 seconds.
"I will George. I'll call you. But I need to go."
"Okay, well tell me when soon," George utters one last plea.
"Yep. Okay, bye."

I text. I call. Where's George? George answers.

"George, where are you? I thought we were going to dinner," said only with very slight irritation.
"I'm at the gym."
"But George. What about dinner?"
"I'll meet you after the gym."
"I can't George. I'm going to the BYU Choir concert."
"We'll lets get together after the concert."
"I can't George. I already have plans after the concert."
"Yeah, okay, so I'll call you after the concert."

George is not getting it. Why don't the words I say register in his brain?

"Yeah, yeah sure George. See ya there," I grumble.

Now what? I wander around the Cougareat aimlessly and feeling awkward because I don't actually go to this school anymore. I get the classic Tomassitos chicken broccoli rottini alfredo and find a table. Yes. I eat alone--thanks a lot George. Beg me to hang out with you and then bail. Some friend you are.

But then, lo and behold. What is happening at the next table. At first I'm not sure. All I can really see is bags and bags teeming full of red fuzz. That's right, red fuzz. And then there is this slightly stout girl spinning. She spins and twists and somehow ties all of this red fuzz into yarn. Now to some of you, this may sound cool even, but practical and efficient me wonders why fuzz girl doesn't just go and buy red yarn. I'm sure that purchasing bushels full of red fuzz can not be that much cheaper than just purchasing the yarn as is. And after all time=$$$. So, of course I view this fuzz twisting and spinning as a complete waste of time. But wait. Suddenly everything becomes clear: the girl's posse approach. And they are none other than the medieval club.

And all of this is thanks to my bad friend George. Thanks George! I never would have witnessed the miracle of yarn-spinning-creation or the ever enduring presence of the medieval club.