Before Landon was rudely dismissing the social value of a mutual friend’s relative, he was in the midst of an even greater failure; a mightier testament to his lack of conscientiousness and regard towards his fellows than any party faux pas could have encapsulated – he was late for picking me up for said party.
To be exact, 32 minutes late.
Now. I am fully cognizant of and respectful towards those instances in which one cannot control their calendar; in which forces beyond one’s control diverts one from their intended path, and forces them to inconvenience those around them; in which, despite the uncontrollable delay in which they find themselves, they are likely communicating their apologies and regrets all the while to alleviate ill will on the part of those expecting their imminent arrival.
Then there’s Landon. Who, as he pulled up in a black Chevy Impala better suited for drug deals than carpooling (sincerely, this thing has absurdly tinted windows and a giant, bright red interior light), expressed no regret. Who communicated nothing about his late arrival. Who, if he was wearing sunglasses at the time, would have likely taken them off slowly and spit casually in the direction of my feet.
Landon. I understand your masculine pride prohibits you from apologizing. Either way, I expected better. Although at this point, I’m not sure why I do.
Landon Acknowledge Me 