Sincerely, The Unwitting Memoirist

Air Horn Breakups

I used to know a guy, and I knew that I could not be boyfriend-girlfriend with him any longer because of his laugh.

It was like an air horn—it didn’t sound like an air horn, but it was disorienting, disconcerting like that. Like even if you told me you were going to blow the air horn in exactly 10 minutes, I couldn’t still get over being completely jarred and startled by it. Like wtf fjfhjdfhdjhdfjdhf was that! Immediately I would get mad, at his joy.

But that’s how he would laugh. Loud and uncomfortable, like everyone looking around, like duuuude. It wasn’t like his personality. His personality was very consistent, very guy-like. But the laugh was like the slasher knife through that normalcy to let me know that somehow I couldn’t trust him, in the most startling, air horn kind of way. Like after years of a very consistent personality I would walk into the kitchen to see him having sex with a bison or something. See? His laugh was like that. It caught you totally off guard that I said that. That’s why I had to break up with him. And I couldn’t say the truth, that I was breaking up with him because of his laugh because it sounded too much like a lie that I would have to explain, that would make me look crazy.

Like, I’m breaking up with you in the same way that people who wear tinted glasses somehow freak me out. The way I just don’t trust someone with a bandage on the top of their hands or someone who wears noticeable dirty white sneakers. Or that guy who ties his shoelaces too tight. No, no. I’m breaking up with you because you’re cheating …

You slime ball. The laugh just reminded me of that.

AHA HAHAHHAHA HAHAH! Nobody’s ever ready for an air horn.