The following account is 100% true, although embellished at certain points.
I met her at a purim party.
It was just a one-night fling. I don't even know her name.
I was sitting on the women's side, blotting out the name of Haman like, "HAMAN IS SO MEAN. EAT DIRT!" She heard my American accent and immediately assumed I was a fan. She whipped out her mother's cellphone (this is how religious and/or pathetic this girl is: she doesn't have her own mobile device and has to use her mother's to store her Bieber beats on! Oy!) and asked me if I preferred the trance remix or regular version of "Baby" featuring Ludacris.
"I like to stick to the classics. Regulari, bevakashahh," I said in a half-mocking, disinterested tone.
"I love Justin Bieber. I want to marry. I am love Justin Beiber. Ani rotzeh l'fondle ha beitzim shel Justin Bieber. At ohevet? At mekirah et 'Never Say Never'?"
We did three L'Chayims to Justin Beiber. At this point, I was getting a kick out of this. Look at the sorry, greasy seminary girl dressed up as a tiger, trying to win me over through bad American pop culture. HAH
She then swept me over to the computers in the hostel (Oh, did I mention I spent purim in Tsfat at Ascent, this uber-chabad-y center in the old city? more about that later. i need to vent)
She tried to show me that she was actually friends with Justin Bieber on Facebook and when he comes to israel, she has backstage tickets to see him. Wow, girl. You're facebook friends? You know how exclusive that is? I wonder if he'll drop his hot girlfriend, Selena Gomez, for your pimply perfection clad in a pit-stained turtleneck!
She showed me his pictures and had me stare at his "Quotations" section until I felt like a pedophile for stalking a pre-pubescent boy.
I thought maybe she drank a little too much Purim punch and temporarily forgot about social graces, but the next morning as I was sitting out on the veranda of the Tel Aviv Hotel, sipping tea and eating an egg sandwich, I smelled something that was too strong to be egg. And there she was, breathing down my neck, shoving her Imma's cellphone into my face, blasting the latest techno version of "One Time" (by the way, I had to look up the names of all these JB songs to make this blogpost more specific and engaging....I have no idea who this Canadian Boy-Meets-World is).
I told her I have to go. She insisted I give her my number. It was too early in the morning to fake a realistic-sounding israeli phone number, so I typed it in.
She was the reason I didn't stay for the last two hours of the Purim program in the hostel. I checked out early because of her. I ran to the bus station like Lindsay Lohan on parole. Even with a crying baby and a seminary girl noisily eating three bags of chips next to me, the 4-hour bus ride back to Jerusalem was pure Gan Eden.
Twenty-four hours later and she has called me more than twenty times. Thrice before nine in the morning. TWENTY TIMES!!!!!
Let me put this into more quantifiable terms for you:
Imagine 20 warts on your face. That would suck.
If you found 20 bucks on the ground would you be a happy person? I would think so (except this isn't a situation to be happy about...I am just shifting the perspective)
Picture someone pregnant with twenty babies! Now thats a world record!
TWENTY!!!!!!!! (and a handful of voicemails)
If you were shot with 20 bullets, what would be your chances of surviving. Slim, eh?
Twenty Twizzlers shoved up any of your various ventricles. Ouch!
One Holocaust was enough for the Jewish people. Imagine TWENTY!
I'm telling you, I don't know if I can take it anymore. I tried letting her down politely. Making up excuses: you have the wrong number. I'm in class. I'm in america where calling is 5000 NIS a minute from Israel. I am waxing. I am Justin Beiber (I thought maybe she would die of excitement).
"Aleeeeza, I love you. I love Justin Bieber. I miss you soooo much. I can't wait Justin Bieber. I want listen. I want touch. Bieber Fever! Bieber Fever!"
If only my patience was as long as JB's swoopy bangs.
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