Dear Girls Above Me: Inspired by a True Story Read Online Free PDF

consider a luxury, but it’s also something you can’t really accessorize by yourself without feeling totally pathetic. I realized I had found the perfect roommate. Finally, a man who would umbrella my drink for me. So I invited him to stay permanently (assuming the umbrellas would continue).
    In college, Pat was my resident advisor, which was basically a semifancy way of saying that he was the person I went to if I clogged my toilet. He was certainly a leader in all things plunger related. But with this title, he also had the authority to fine me for things like lighting candles and/or farts, skateboarding in front of the dormitories, and playing the trumpet outside Jenny O’Brien’s window. Luckily for me I quickly realized that Pat was much too nice of a guy to use his authority over me. Any time he would start to fumble his words, I knew I could easily talk him out of any disciplinary action, which for me is the sign of a potential best friend.
    To this day, I believe I still hold the record for the most farts lit on fire (sixteen) in a public area without getting into trouble. I owe this crowning achievement to Pat, because Tyler Trautman was right on my tail (fourteen) and was really getting into a solid rhythm just before Pat busted him. Tyler was very confused as to why he suffered from disciplinary action over lighting farts while I did not. Later on, Pat was freaking out, thinking that Tyler was going to take this issue to a higher power: the school’s board. I told Pat he needed to “calm the fuck down” and find a place to lie low for a bit. He sat on his large beanbag chair in his dorm room for a week, while I brought him tater tots every morning until things cooled off. Tyler never ended up filing a report. Maybe he was too embarrassed about having to admit he lost to me in a fart-lighting contest, or maybe he was scared by the life-threatening handwritten note I left on his pillow. It’s unclear. Regardless, that little incident brought Pat and me closer.
    So much for memory lane. I was groggy and sleep deprived as I made my way into the living room. It was seven thirty A.M. and Pat was playing a Wii video game called Michael Jackson: The Experience . The music was blaring at full volume as he danced along to the beat. If my apartment wasn’t in a black hole from which no sound can escape, someone might’ve complained about the noise. He maneuvered his body perfectly in between our two La-Z-Boy recliners and gripped a remote in his hand as if it were a microphone, which for the record was absolutely pointless, because the game calculated his dance moves and had nothing to do with his singing.
    “Dirty Diana, no. Dirty Diana, no. It’s Dia … aa … aa … ana!” Pat sang with enough passion to raise Michael out of his “Thriller” grave.
    “Good morning,” I said quietly in order not to disturb his concentration.
    “Charlie, I’m on my way to reaching eighty thousand points for the first time. Watch me get dirty with Diana.”
    Pat climbed up onto our coffee table and began thrusting his pelvis into a nonexistent woman. He was completely oblivious to everything he was knocking over and crushing on the table. The OCD boy living inside me almost passed out from sensory overload.
    “Pat, come on, you just knocked over a glass of water—”
    “Ssh … Dirty Diana, no!” I couldn’t believe it; he’d actually shushed me. I absolutely hate it when people shush me. But then I remembered that MJ makes odd vocal noises during his songs and assumed Pat was just singing “Sha’mone,” which is MJ-speak for “come on.”
    “You’re not even looking at the video game anymore. Now you’re just dry-humping our table,” I said. But Pat was in his own world and nothing could stop him. As I watched Pat take our poor table’s virginity, I couldn’t help but wonder whom he pictured underneath him. He sang with such strong emotion and intensity that he couldn’t have been thinking about just