You So Nasty...

Spending the summer in New York City last year was an experience from heaven with the devil as my sidekick. I began my excursion with an acquaintance from work; we'll call her Nasty Mac. Nasty Mac and I decided to save money by taking a train to New York. Smart idea until we wound up in the station for well over 20 hours, waiting on a delayed train. During those first few hours, I had a bad feeling about her. We didn't know each other well, but I figured a two-month-long trip into the greatest city in the world would be worth it. We had many mutual friends and I started out admiring her free-spirited attitude and honest opinions on the world. She seemed like a cool hippie without the drugs and patchouli oil.

As we waited on the train, she opened my suitcase and took out my bottle of champagne that I was planning on opening upon our arrival into the city. After gently taking the bottle from her hands and telling her my plans for the bottle, she ripped it back with her claws and popped the cork with her teeth, proclaiming "If I have to be stuck in a train station in Fayettenam I sure as hell ain't gonna be sober." Upon that classy remark, I took a deep breath and filled a paper cone cup with the bubbly. If Nasty Mac was going to crack my bottle, I wasn't going to let her drink it without me.

The first week in New York City, I came home one afternoon to find Nasty Mac wrapped in my quilt, naked. I had known she hadn't showered for a few days--she liked that greasy, dirty, "I don't care" look. When I walked into the apartment and saw her wrapped in my favorite quilt given to me by my grandmother, I gagged and asked how her day was. Upon later inspection, her hair, her greasy and stinking hair, had actually left an oil mark on my quilt. It was revolting and it was then that I knew she was a devil.

The next day found me rummaging through my suitcase, which had mysteriously been nearly emptied. All except for a pair of dirty underwear wrapped in a shirt. The shirt was mine. The underwear were not. My weak stomach got the best of my and sent me gagging all the way to the bathroom.

Nasty Mac was disgusting. I once saw her eat her lunch while she was using the toilet. I saw this because the door was wide open, of course. I learned she was an atheist and hated everyone and everything. She hated sports but loved to argue about them with me. She was disgusted by peanut butter but ate half of my jar with her fingers. She showered once a week and when she did, she used my razor and soap, even going as far as to leave hair all over it. She picked her nose, walking down the street in Manhattan.

On average, I gagged three times a day due to Nasty Mac. My weak stomach was no match for her and I think she knew it. She was a loner and enjoyed having the place to herself. I think she knew that if she made me gag, I would leave. So that's how my trip went. I would wake to find her dirty naked body sprawled on the sofa, gag and be on my way. When I would get home from lunch, I would find Nasty Mac wrist deep in the toilet fishing for my toothbrush. Gagging ensued and I would be out the door before I even ask why. Night was no different. I would eat dinner out, and come home to find her biting off her toenails in a skirt with no underwear on. Gag. Gag. GAG.

Eventually, my vacation with dirty Satan ended and I moved back to Wilmington, thankfully alone. My stomach never did recover from Nasty Mac. I haven't spoken to her since.