Come, and let me weave you a tale. One of poorly dramatized bits that fail to sound like they’re actually dramatic. One of my friend and my left thigh. It started one day on a road trip. Sitting on the right side of me in the completely full fifteen-passenger van, Dante a new friend of mine. Reached out across my lap and grips my left thigh.

“What are you doing?” I asked with a completely blank face as I looked up at him. Though his face was already there. Making direct eye contact. Gazing, into my soul. I was terrified. Though I couldn’t show weakness. Not to this threat.

“Your thigh, I claim it…” He said without breaking eye contact. His lips grew smug before becoming the embodiment of smug anime girl edits.

I couldn’t react. With was a declaration of war! Being a dumbass pacifist I decided that the best course of action was to completely surrender and negotiate terms and agreements. I suck at CIV. How do the mechanics work? They don’t make sense! Anyways, I’m off-topic.

After several hours in the car, we agreed on a certain amount of terms including when the thigh could be accessed/groped, That my thigh would be removed from my body upon death, stuffed, and sent to his home on a plaque that says “I kept my word,” and that no one else was allowed a claim to my left thigh. Which we wrote out in google docs while we were in the car and printed out once we arrived at our destination.

Now, here’s where the backstory gets a little tricky. At a later date, I laid claim to his thigh in the exact same method that he used on me. Rather than being compliant, Dante says no and refused to compromise. Being completely outclassed by the Chad because I am a beta bitch, I retreat.

Now I was stuck in a bind. The law is not on my side as I signed a legally binding document, placed it with my will, and couldn’t even get equal compensation. So a few years go by and neither has forgotten. Neither can forget. And out of the blue, Dante tells me off.

“You’re going to die of alcohol poisoning by age sixty and I’ll have your sweet succulent thigh hanging above my fireplace.” He said. Though I can’t remember if that’s what he said or if that’s what I thought he said. I was drunk when he said it.

Though now I imagine, A day where I’m dead, and my friend is crying over my disembodied thigh. Not because he lusted for my thigh, but because it meant he had lost a friend. He’ll let out a sigh as his family asks why he’s crying. With an old raspy voice, he’ll say one sentence.

“That cringe-ass motherfucker kept his word after all.”

He called me cringe… I am not cringe. I am an asshole… but not cringe. Oh, wait. I’m both. Guess that’s the end of this story.