Ka-Boom.

It's been a couple of weeks since I've heard from the Bomb Tech (BT). I wasn't really surprised. Mildly puzzled, but not clutching at my chest. I'm suing the authors of "He's Just Not That Into You," for ripping off my life story, so how surprised could I really be?

Last night I ordered Chinese food with a girlfriend and insisted on having Sweet and Sour Chicken Balls just so I could say Chicken Balls. A lot. My sense of humour resembles a ten year old boy's sometimes, and that's not surprising either. Ridiculous, but not surprising.

When I told my girlfriend in between chicken balls (I even like typing it!) that I hadn't heard from BT in a while and she said that she had, as he visits her fairly often...overnight...that was a surprise. It was a huge surprise actually, although it may explain why she was OK with paying for dinner.

She assumed it was OK because I wasn't really that interested any more. Certainly, I had shared how things were going. She was the one who introduced us so there were a few times I may have declared myself done with him when she asked how things were.

I suppose being done with him could be taken several ways. Perhaps I was really done with him, or perhaps I was just frustrated at the lack of progress. Maybe we had actually ended things, or maybe I just thought we might and was trying to prepare for that time.

There really wasn't anything to do but keep eating at that point, because he and I were obviously done right then, and according to her he had really fucked it up with me. That much was really, really true.

(The irony of my friend acknowledging that the BT had really fucked it up with me just after telling me how often he comes over to fool around with her was something that only really hit me hours later.)

(When it finally did, I was really angry that I couldn't have had that example ready and waiting when my Grade 12 English teacher asked me for the definition of irony while poking my head with a ruler. I was asleep at the time. In my defense, that classroom had very poor air circulation.)

I really wanted to ask my friend if the BT made her watch him jack-off too. What could she be doing differently to feign interest and excitement while watching that I just couldn't do? Then I thought better of it. Best to stick with my chicken balls (!) and leave that subject alone.

Which brings us to another topic: Girl Code. There is a Code, and the nuances may vary due to situation and the girls in question, but one aspect of Girl Code is infallible - you don't fuck with it.

Girl Code means you hold her hair back when she pukes, grab your car keys when she calls saying everything is fine but you know it isn't, and there is never anything wrong with her, it's how they make the clothes too small these days.

Girl Code means you don't say, "I told you so." Instead, you say, "That bastard, I'll kill him." It means you're available for moral support and hand holding at clinics when it might be bad, bridal shops when it might be good, Las Vegas, roller coasters, dance floors, beaches and shoe stores everywhere just because.

Those are just some of the rules, but there's one more that should be obvious to anybody who's ever been a girl. If you're lucky enough to have good girls in your life, you don't fuck with their men. Not. Ever.

This can get tricky. At what point does a guy become off-limits? If you know your girls, you know when this is. It's not a matter of time or dating status, but emotional investment. For example, knowing your girl shaved her legs in preparation for a date may be one thing. Knowing she submitted to a Brazilian wax in anticipation is another.

This is why I'm still able to call this girl my friend, and she's lucky. I was never that invested. I was excited by the possibility of something new, happy that he wore a militaristic uniform because damn that's sexy, and satisfied I hadn't broken my streak in which I only date men with more testosterone than brains. Despite these things, I was never crazy in love.

Had the BT been Alex however, I would cut a bitch. I seriously would, even though I can't call him mine and will never get to do so. This particular area of Girl Code defies reason and logic. It's not rational, but it certainly just IS.

Somewhere in my heart Alex is mine, and therefore it's easier to explain what this means in Girl Code. The violation and the conversation would have gone very differently, so for those who don't intuitively grasp the Code, the conversation would go like this:

Friend in Violation of Girl Code - So I fooled around with Alex last night...

Bambi: I. Will. Cut. You.

Friend in Violation of Girl Code - But Bambi, you've been married to Mr. December in the Fireman's Calendar for 37 years and you're still doing the pool boy on the side...shouldn't you have moved on?

Bambi: Where is my knife...?

Logic and time passing makes no difference. Whether the relationship was one-sided or not makes no difference. There is no justification. The conversation could even go this way:

Friend in Violation of Girl Code - Alex is my soul mate. Jesus Christ himself returned to earth, declared my relationship with Alex will bring about world peace, the end of the cola wars, and the cure for cellulite. Also cancer and AIDS. Our saliva mixed together heals the sick and ends suffering. Also gingivitis. When we make love we single-handedly ensure global warming stays in check and that puppies aren't tortured.

Bambi - I. Will. Cut. You.

Friend in Violation of Girl Code - But Bambi, you've been a lesbian since 2013 when you said you couldn't take dating men any more and decided you were just going to stop shaving and marry K.D. Lang. That was 20 years ago! Think of world peace! Think of the children!

Bambi - Fuck the children. Where is my knife...?

See? Girl Code is pretty simple to grasp, but there are girls out there who don't get it. They can have friends, but never the friends who would join them in driving off a cliff, Thelma and Louise styles. That's sad for them, whether they know it or not. I'd always hope I'd have a friend in that passenger seat, holding my hand out of loyalty and adventure.

I'm sad it went this way with the BT, because I would have almost preferred not knowing why. More than that though, it's sadder to be the girl who realizes she may need to step out of that passenger seat some time. Tuck and roll if she has to. Steep cliff ahead.