Pilot
Lately, it seems the universe is trying to give me a sign. Every excerpt I read, show I stream, or conversation I have translates to the same message, and it feels to be coming from some omnipotent force. With an energy I have never before felt, I feel as though something is trying to get through to me. I notice patterns in film, television, and literature—those that maintain consistent themes and push identical morals. Watching Carrie Bradshaw realize for the thousandth time that her friends were all she needed, or reading Dolly Alderton’s monologue about the truest and most authentic relationship being platonic and between women, I have come to see this apparate as something stronger than myself, asking me to slow down.
A total cliché, but never is there a love equivalent to the sheer comfort and relief that comes from returning home to a couch of the girls you need the most. 30 Rock lights up the screen of our cheap Roku monitor, the pinkish-red dust of Trader Joe’s spicy tortilla chips coats our fingers, and the smell of corner store weed fills the already stuffy room. A seat is saved for me, on the end, of course. I take a few drags of the loosely-rolled joint until my brain quiets and the only sound is the echo of our budget speakers and the hum of the window unit.
On weekends—or whenever our shared consciousness agrees to hit the town—we eagerly exchange style advice and question whether we will be miserable in heels (the answer is always yes). I liberally apply one of Jaiden’s many Maracuja Juicy Lip Gloss shades—of which she has an endless supply—and connect my phone to my Bluetooth speaker. What plays for the next hour or so includes but is not limited to Azealia Banks, the LIVE.LOVE.A$AP album, obnoxious electric dance music, and the occasional sappy folk song. I attempt to do my eyebrows, and to no avail. I forget to put on perfume and leave behind my bar wristbands from weekends past. It’s no big deal—just another $20 we are regrettably forking over to have the most underwhelming evening of the same three Bad Bunny songs.
No strangers to the charm and allure of college flirtation, we scan the 10×10 room for a sign of our favorite campus crushes. Nine times out of ten, they are nowhere to be found, and we end up in tedious conversation with a drunk person from one of our classes, with whom we have never interacted. After a few sips out of about three different mixed drinks, which were impulsively purchased upon entry, our synchronized biological alarm clocks go off, and at last, it is time for pizza, the only acceptable post-game. Over a few slices of Margherita from our frequented mom-and-pop, we exchange very few words—our bloodshot eyes and slow chewing say enough. Occasionally, we get a second wind of energy, which is put towards a few hits from our communal bong, which, at this stage, could likely support a diverse ecosystem. Before our heads hit the pillow, we become scattered in various Twister positions across the “two” bedroom, and doze off into a quick, dreamless slumber.
It is not solely the highs and the lows of college life that we bask in together, but the mundane, the insignificant, and the ugly. Together, we find ourselves in a state of comfort and safety that one might liken to how you feel when completely alone. I fall into a trance; my brain loses sight of self-consciousness, my body moves freely, and my thoughts are clear. With my attention isolated to the left side of my brain and the beating of my heart, I feel whole—the best is brought out of me, and the same beaming energy emulates from the girls who sit just across from me. We can talk about realistically anything, from one’s deepest, darkest demons to her happiest, fondest memories. Somehow, all are paid equal attention, and conversation takes wonderfully serendipitous twists into new territory. When we think we have talked through it all and reached every dead end imaginable, a fresh and inspiring thought enters our stream of consciousness, and we are entertained for another several hours.