Nah-nah-nah-nah-naaah-nah

2 p.m.: "We got our DVD burner in the mail today. And the Fed Ex woman said she saw our name and was like, 'Oh, I know some Wasingers,' and it turns out she was friends with those Wasingers whose pictures I saw that one time on DC5," Dave said, referencing some obscure photo on our archive system at work he came across while searching for himself.

"Cool."

"Yeah, weird, huh?"

4 p.m.: "Oh, my DVD burner came today," Dave said.

I looked at him like "duh."

"I mean OUR DVD burner," he said.

"No; the look wasn't for that. I know this. You just told me this."

Look of confusion spread across his face.

"You told me. About two hours ago. Remember, there was that Wasinger thing?"

"Oh. Well. I don't remember."

"You know who you're like?"

"Don't say my mom," he said.

"Your mom! That's exactly who! I'm going to call you Little Mil."

"Don't!"

"Little Mil! Little Mil!"

And he fled.

Every playground relationship I ever had followed similar patterns.