Help! It’s Me, the Quirky Best Friend in Your Romantic Comedy, and I’m Literally Dying from a Lack of Juicy Details.

By Natasha Vaynblat

adult blur bouquet boy
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

iMessage 10:00am

Yo gurl! I haven’t gotten a text from you since last night, and I HAVE
to know what happened with that guy you met at a deli hot bar when you
both reached for the same turkey leg!?! You eat meat right off the
bone, and it’s SO COOL.

iMessage 10:30am

Yo guurl! Where u been? Just wanted to remind you I exist purely to
listen to your drama and approve of your life choices. Most people
consume food and convert it to energy, but my organs run on
meet-cutes. So I NEED to know the sitch with Mr. Turkey-Leg. Also I
would LURVE an update on how your miniature soap store, the one
bequeathed to you by your dying mother, is doing now that Big Soap has
moved in across the street.

iMessage 11:15am

Haaaay guuurl! I woke up this morning fingers primed for your message
about needing my help to stop the wedding of a man who winked at you
from a parade float. But our text thread has had no updates since
1:05am when I said, “27 dresses is not too many dresses! Also, I’ve
never worn a dress – you know I only wear vintage corduroy overalls.
What’s it like?” As a result, my breathing has gotten shallow, and I’m
pretty sure I’m bleeding from my eyes.

iMessage 12:30pm

MY QUEEEN! Still waiting on that text! You’re probably busy writing
your phone number in various out of print copies of the Canterbury
Tales, but I’m ready for whenever you want to chat. I’ve put on my
shapeless pastel cardigan and sexless clogs and have dog-eared
hundreds of cookbooks, so I’m ready with the perfect recipe when you
need it. Remember that tilapia I made for you when you realized your
dad’s ornery fishmonger was actually super cute beneath his
bloodstained and scale-splattered gutting apron?! You ate the entire
dish and my belly was so full with your joy.

iMessage 4:30pm

SUPZ LIGHT-OF-MY-LIFE/BRINGER-OF-JOY/REASON-FOR-BEING BAE! Still no
word from you! I’ve spent the last four hours sitting in a metal chair
facing the front door, hands outstretched, ready to embrace you. I
hate to complain or show any emotion other than “sassy- supportive”,
but my arms have lost feeling and my fingers are now translucent. All
I need is a simple text. Even a .gif of Reese Witherspoon will do.

iMessage 6:00pm

Is my name the problem? I normally go by Doreen, but I’ve been
brainstorming other non-show stealing options. How about Agnes,
Bertha, or Salman? Would you prefer to text a Salman? For the love of
Louboutin, please turn on your Read Receipts!

iMessage 8:30pm

BESTFRANGGGGGG, you need me as much as I need you! I’m the only one
who believed you when you said you were actually a thirteen-year-old
girl who woke up in the body of a man on death row. Oh god, my breath
is sputtering like a dying tilapia, but maybe I can make it if you
post an Insta-story?

iMessage 10:22pm

I never want to take a millisecond of your time discussing my own
problems, but I’m pretty sure my organs are shutting down and maybe
leaking from my anus? I tried to call a doctor but you were my only
phone contact, so I Googled it, and WebMD said the only thing that can
save me now is a transfusion of salacious best-friend gossip.

iMessage 11:45pm

Just now I thought I heard you knock at my door, so that I could hold
you while you decide it’s time to call off the bet and tell him the
truth: that you’re a serious journalist writing an article about
micro-dating only to show your caustic editor you’ve got the chops to
write about genocide. I tried to stand up, but my legs didn’t respond.
Desperate to move, I sawed them off with the butter knife I set aside
for your pancakes. I crawled towards you on my bloody stumps. Turns
out it wasn’t you but a hallucination. I was just talking to my empty
coat rack. Empty because I don’t have and never will have coats.

iMessage 12:00am

These are my last moments. I bequeath all of my possessions to you:
one chair, one coat rack, twelve hundred photos of us laughing on
swings. Promise me one thing: after I’m gone, will you tell people
about you?

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