An Average Friday

It’s 7:07 PM, and the nine remaining beers in your fridge are teasing you like Bhad Babies’ exclusive content website (shut up, we’ve all searched it on Reddit). You initially planned to go to the gym today, but a pitch deck, a trip to Trader Joe’s, and a meeting that lasted longer than it needed to because your millennial boss wanted to show everyone his lake house have prohibited your gains. There’s still time to get big before Hinge Profile Picture season arrives, but you’re cutting it closer than a Sophomore in college off 45 milligrams of Adderall writing a final paper. Much like that one video where Lana Rhoades is working with a personal trainer, shutting your laptop on a Friday is a feeling that never gets old. Your group chat has been somewhat dormant since the discussion about Kendrick Lamar’s new album and a rumor that a kid from your friend’s high school died at the hands of crypto this morning, but you anticipate things will heat up. 

After you’ve, you put on an outfit that says, “I’m too old to pee my bed when drunk, but I do,” and go into your living room where your friend is watching a nine-year-old Ultra Set. After a few minutes of casual conversation, your phone starts buzzing like Jerry Seinfield in 2006, as plans for the night are ramping up, and the boys are more fixated on getting a bag than the Red Scare subreddit after Met Gala. As the NBA playoffs begin tip off, you begin throwing back some beers. You will do this until the general of your friend group comes up with a concrete plan for you guys to all spend $72 and probably not take a girl home- fun. 

Once things are in place, you call an Uber to catch the tail end of a mid-pregame and finish a basketball game that took too much of your hard-earned money. The Uber driver to bars hates you like a green-haired girl hates Ben Shapiro. Not in the “oh fuck these kids” kind of way, more like in the grinding her teeth as the guy that’s way too drunk goes on a tangent about Doc Rivers kind of way. Eventually, you all pile out, slipping and sliding, getting mud all over the Red Mazda cx5, having no regard for the fact that whoever ordered this Uber will have to go through a painful 37-minute phone call with their office in San Francisco to get his account access back at some point. 

An hour into dancing like an embarrassing white guy, you accidentally spill some of a girl’s drink and offer to buy her a new one. It wasn’t the best first impression, but she agreed with your take that the music at this place sucks, and now you’re seven minutes into a conversation about the time she candyflipped at ACL. Things are going unexpectedly good, and if you can maintain this level of drunk, much like the post-9/11 Mike Piazza home run this one has a chance. After forty-five minutes of both of you guys appeasing your friends and kind of publicly making out, she agrees that she wants to see what you picked up from the frozen section of Trader Joe’s, and you guys hop into a chariot-driven by a guy named Omar. How does the tale end, you ask? Well, let’s just say that she will send a text to her friends tomorrow about a unique young gentleman that disappointed her and then made her watch Interstellar. 

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