If I were to list my best qualities--say for a self-esteem exercise--my unrelenting vindictiveness would easily overtake my happy disposition, good hygiene, and nose, which is A-okay.
Karl Kemp, the antiques dealer, was the first man I waged war on. My close friend Alesha and I went into his dealership and touched just about every doo-dad in sight. Kemp asks us to leave and we does as he says. Full of venom, Alesha and I immediately began our battle formations, a phalanx de trois, enlisting a gentleman friend Mr. Wilson to pose as a furniture enthusiast. Meanwhile, I am to apply for a long-term position at the downtown offices.
Within months, I will have become Karl Kemp's protege: MOMA Mondays, Frick Fridays, Sundays are brunch-days, and coffee table books with no end in sight. Until one day, I run off with an uninsured lamp. He is sure to collapse when he learns of this. I've taken the lamp, says the note I leave behind, next time do not eject browsers, for we deserve to browse .
And I would've gotten away with it, too, had I not read the "About Karl" on the company website in which KK is exposed as a dog lover with a lot of respect for his mother. Now the only insult I have ever dealt KK is in the Minetta Review, NYU's oldest literary journal. On the second to last page, I call KK "snotty-faced."
I still get worked up when I pass his establishment. But I cannot destroy him.
I have just decided to send this KK's way.
Good decisions all around,