Becca, literally one of your best friends that you haven’t seen in like forever, suggests you guys get some drinks for a long overdue catchup session. The two of you have drifted apart ever since she started dating that guy who started his own line of restoration scarves, but you’re very excited to relive old times.
Five minutes in, Becca announces that she also invited her friend Naomi. Based on the things she posts on Instagram, Naomi is the worst. You repeatedly tell Becca that you’re not mad — just so she knows how furious you really are.
Naomi arrives, and you clamp on to your preconceived biases to confirm that she is indeed the worst. Two minutes later, scarf-man calls Becca with some sort of polyester-related emergency. She’s gone for forty five minutes. It’s just you and Naomi.
You’ve been texting a girl all night. This is huge — she’s very much into you, which hasn’t happened in about 8 months. You’re both out with your friends, but the consensus is that you’ll meet up later.
You walk into a bar and notice your phone is at 9%. You desperately search for a charger. Since the bar is trying to recreate a speakeasy atmosphere (with 4,000% inflation), there are no chargers. Your other friend keeps texting you terrible memes. You really have to go to the bathroom. The bad kind.
Your friend — the one who’s always openly judging you for shit — asks to use your computer.
You’re visiting your friend who lives in another city. He takes you out to some party, talks to people for 10 minutes at a time, and doesn’t introduce you to anyone until the ninth minute.
Your somewhat polarizing friend makes an interesting, but relatively innocuous Facebook statues. You make a funny comment, to mild fanfare.
A few hours later, the thread devolves into a smorgasbord of uncomfortability; complete with hostile personal attacks, militant political views, and GIFs that don’t even make any sense. You continue to be tagged. It makes it all the way to your mom’s feed.
You wait for the elevator with a co-worker with whom you probably should be friendly with, but for some reason have never really broken the ice. You can’t tell if it’s because they’re a bit standoffish, or if you’re just unspeakably awkward — in reality, it’s a little bit of both.
By the grace of a supernatural force, both of your phones are taken out of your pocket and whisked into some faraway ether. This doesn’t occur visually, so neither of you can even comment on it.
You make a comment about how long the elevator is taking, in an attempt to break the ice. The comment is not returned. The elevator doesn’t come for several more minutes.
Brad is a lot cooler than you. You want to impress Brad, and become thrilled when he offers you a handshake. The handshake doesn’t involve a half-hug, which is something you don’t realize until too late.
You’re at your friend Marc’s party. A girl who you spoke to at length last time — and are kinda into — comes up to you all excited. You’re with your friend Steve, who she doesn’t know. Upon introducing her to Steve, you enter a slow-motion haze of doom — you try to say her name and you choke. Then you try to walk away, and you stumble.
You arrive at the movies a little bit early — very excited to see Birdman. Your friend hasn’t arrived yet and has the tickets, so you stand outside and wait for her.
About a minute later, a gaggle of thirteen year olds post up a few feet away from, talking about everything from Vines to who Marcia Stevens made out with this time. Their conversation is extremely horrifying. You have to choice to sit there and take it — there isn’t really anywhere else to sit and wait, and it’d be weird if you moved.
Your friend arrives, and you escape to the comfort of the theater. A few minutes later, the horde of hormones gallivants in and sits down right behind you.
You’re at a bar in your hometown. A guy you once were somewhat friends with — and always thought was kinda cute — is posted up in the corner. He’s got a nice jacket on, and although his hair’s thinning a bit you really like what you see.
You walk by, and hold eye contact — he meets, and then looks away. You have to walk right past him, because that’s just the way the bar traffic is flowing. You walk right by him. You look away. Nothing is uttered. Everything is said.