It's the weekend and we are pissed off.
Between the four of us - a lithe brunette with a sharp smile, a sweet sophomore with a bouncing bob, a blonde that really does have more fun and me - we had lived every subplot of Dawson's Creek in one weekend: breakups, crushes, fights and friendships that turn into hookups that turn into mush.
We are angry, hurt, confused, exhausted and the blonde is already drunk. We should be throwing in our towels and hitting the sack, but apparently, we're not only down and out. We're also going out.
"These guys know they've done us wrong," moans the blonde. "If we sit here and go to bed, we let them win." She picks her Lucky jeans off the floor. "Listen," she demands, climbing into them. "We're showing those stupid jerks that they're not worth it. We can party without them, and we will!"
Three closet raids and a tube of Mac Lipglass later, we're off. In the back of my mind, I know what I want from this night: The guy who's let me down struggling through a crowded room. He'll stare; I'll look away. He'll try to talk, and I'll smile.
"I'm sorry," I'll say politely, looking up from my Miu Miu flats. "I really don't want to talk to you." He'll grab my hand. We'll talk all night about what went wrong and somehow when the sun comes up, things will be right again.
"I really hope I see him," sighs the sophomore, swishing her skirt and echoing my thoughts. "I'm going to be like, just go away. I'm having too much fun without you." The four of us cackle and climb out of the car.
The party is raging - people are everywhere, the floor is sticky with spilled beer and music thumps through the walls. "Let's dance!" cries the blonde, grabbing our wrists and pulling us into the fray. We scan the crowd. As I sink into a couch, my stomach sinks too. The guy I need is not here, and the madness of it all seeps in.
"Come on," says the brunette, sliding next to me. "You have two options. You can be miserable, or you can have fun. Either way, he's still an ass."
She leads me to the dance floor, and after a few minutes - and a few beers - we really are having a great time. Ten minutes later, someone grabs my hand. "Wait," he says, as I look up from my Miu Miu flats. "Is your name Jane?" He smiles a sweet kind of smile. It was adorable, and electric. "No," I grin back. "Is your name Tarzan?"
Fast forward to the next afternoon.
The blonde is still drunk, and we're trading updates at Rick's. "I had the best time," she raves. "I met some guy and talked to him until dawn; it was great."
The sophomore smiles. "I danced until I fell over."
The brunette nods. "Yeah," she says, "I helped pick her up with my new crush! We talked for like an hour! And," she adds devilishly, "I finally flirted with the Starbucks guy today."
"So," says the blonde with a smile, "What happened to you?"
I shrug and start to laugh. "I don't know," I reply.
"Well," says the sophomore, "Someone knows."
"Yeah," I smile, "But the someone who knows is still sleeping."
When it comes to relationships, you can't always get what you want. But if you stick with your friends, blow off the pity party and get yourself to a real one, then you usually get what you need.
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