We wait eleven minutes to get in, during which I send nine texts to an ex and one DM to Shia LaBeouf. All of which you strongly advise against. My ex doesn’t answer, but Shia LaBeouf does? I screenshot his response to my offer to “use him like a napkin,” and post it on my story. He immediately stops responding. Just like his recent film choices, I respect it.

Once inside the bathroom I start to tell you about my ex-boyfriend Rick cheating on me with my coworker Jill and how it was actually pretty bad because I already have trust issues being a Leo and everything, and like I was also under a lot of stress what with taxes being due in four months…. A way too personal tale to be telling you considering that before this our relationship had devolved to a “we should do drinks sometime!” and a “Happy Birthday, we should do drinks sometime” follow-up six months later.

I pause the story to force a Snapchat of us smiling into the toothpaste stained mirror. The smile does not touch your eyes but I don’t notice because I only look at myself in pictures. What can I say I’m a Leo (narcissist). I post the photo regardless of the visible drugs in the background and the knowledge that my coworker's parents, and now Shia LaBeouf, follow me on social media.

I resume my story although at one point you thought I forgot I was even telling it, cause I disconcertingly switched topics to suggest we get tattoos together. Nothing too crazy, just like the word “bitches” on the inside of our lip. It’ll be cute!! We could go tomorrow!

I switch back and get to what you hope is close to the end of the story (spoiler it’s not) all while making shockingly strong eye contact, given that my pupils are 17 times the average humans and I am swaying over the toilet seat vagina out, missing both the bowl and the point of my story entirely.

Throughout the ordeal, multiple people knock and ask if we’re ok and you try to use that as your opportunity to leave but then I unlock Tear Mode and just like Shia LaBeouf in my favorite feature film Disturbia, you're trapped inside with a psychopath. The tears combined with pupil dilation have altered my appearance drastically and now you're wondering if the Babadook is real and reapplying eyeliner in front of you.

At minute 25, you internally question whether it matters to be nice to someone who won't remember it because she's pissing pure tequila and now leaning in to kiss a little? It's like if a tree falls in the woods, do you have to listen to it explain its trauma in a coke-dusted bathroom?

Finally I finish my story, my cocaine, and our time together. I wipe away the tears that I’ve shed on and around you. And seem completely ok again. I'm off to look for my next “good friend” to reconnect with. It’s my roommate’s boyfriend’s brother who didn’t ask my opinion on Jill from work, but who is going to get it anyway. I mean why can’t she just stay in her lane?

You go to flush the toilet for me cause I obviously forgot and you see I’ve managed to drop my uncased iPhone into the bowl. It’s fully submerged. You’re once again at a precipice. Do you leave to try to salvage your night, or do you plunge your hand in toilet water to retrieve the device of a girl who just spilled her drink on your white pants while pronouncing your name incorrectly? You snake your hand in and pull out a now dead iPhone. You are a saint. You go to the kitchen and find rice to bury the phone in. You are Mother Teresa in a tube top. I will never thank you for your services. But know it is your kind whom I celebrate on Veterans Day.

Now in this post-party era you think back on me fondly—you even, dare I say, miss me a little.

I don't remember you at all. Sarah was it?


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