The Trauma of Interaction

When I was nine years of age, my young mind unironically believed that there was such a thing in the world as a "Friend Fairy", which, on the contrary to the classic Tooth Fairy, would have you exchange money for a friend.

Which, of course, is an idea so unrealistic and depressing for a nine-year-old to think of on his own that the idea on itself would create an entire museum for unrealistic and depressing things and be the first exhibit. However, my young and unfortunately stupid mind did not only think of this concept, but also believed it to be true until I turned eleven, without any questioning at all.

I do suppose that even as a nine-year-old, the idea seemed ridiculous, however, this was irrelevant to the fact that I wanted to be comforted by the idea that one day I would have as many friends as I wanted.

Now, as a twenty-three year old man looking back on his embarrassing past, I think that even if I had the chance to buy people from some loud, annoying little human with wings, I wouldn't. Over the course of my life I have decided that, in my most wildest of fantasies, I wouldn't have any people I had to interact with, and would just read and nap and watch television for the near-entirety of my life. In short: I am a severe introvert.

And, as anybody would expect from the average severe introverted house-slug with an excuse for a job and more video games than he could handle, I was planning- nay, relying on having my afternoon cleared up of unnecessary tasks and unnecessary people.

Of course, to my utter disappointment, just as I was silently appreciating the fact that I had the entire evening to myself, I heard my doorbell ring - dINNg - which, as a nice bonus, reminded me that my doorbell sounded like a plastic Halloween prop that was nearly out of battery, and that I was going to have to use my hard-earned money to have someone repair it.

I went to the door. Ken stood on the welcome mat.

"John, enough is enough. We're going for a boy's night out," he said. Ken was the most extroverted person I knew, and if I had known that I would have to not only work with him but also interact with him outside of our jobs, I would have seriously gotten a job somewhere else. His jeans were both too tight and too small, cutting off at the halfway point of his calves, but despite the jeans being too small, he had the boldness to roll them up an extra inch. His Metallica T-shirt, on the other hand, was an adult extra-extra large, even though he was short and rather skinny. He's holding a coffee in his hands.

"That sounds like a great idea! But oh, God, I just remembered: I have a dentist appointment in like, half an hour. By the time I'm out of the door for this night out, I'd already have to be on my way to my appointment," I said quickly. Surprisingly, of all the excuses I have made to avoid interaction, I have never used the classic "Dentist Appointment" until just now

"Oh, really?" Ken asked. "which dentist? What's his name? What kind of appointment do you have? Have you been there before?"

"Er-" I stopped to think. "Uh, there's a new place out of town- I think his name is..." My voice trailed off.

"Dude. You are such a lying - what's the word - liar. You are such a lying liar."

"Very smooth," I said.

"Meet me outside in five minutes or I will seriously egg your house, John."

"Then I'll call the cops!" Exclamation unnecessary, I thought. Get over yourself, Ken.

"You won't know who did it," he said entirely unsarcastically and in complete seriousness.

"Ken, you literally just confessed," I replied curiously, not in such a way of which I was actually curious about something, but in such a way that I'm just questioning whether he's mentally unstable or just kind of stupid. Then I sighed. "Give me that coffee."

"Get your own goddamned coffee," Ken said.

"Give me coffee and I'll be out in five minutes." While my sigh is a small, barely noticeable exhale dragged out for another half second, Ken's is an over-dramatic mess: SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIghhhhhhhuhuhuh.

"Fine. Be out in five minutes," he sighed.

I took the coffee inside, took a very large sip (some of it dripped down the sides of my mouth and onto the floor) and put the rest of it down on the coffee table. Then I walked back out, regretting what I was doing. "I'm ready."

"You look the same," Ken said.

"I said I'm ready. Where are you planning on taking me?"

"Let's go for a drink."

"Should have brought that coffee," I groaned, then shuffled into his Toyota Corolla. On my way inside the car, I happened to sit on a chewed piece of gum, and leaned back against the very uncomfortable car seat. Ken then had the wonderful idea to play the soft rock radio an blast it loudly. The worst part? He yelled, "Oh yeah, that's the stuff," as it came on.

There goes my alone time, and my comfiest pair of pants, and my sanity, if it hasn't already gone.

On a regular basis, I would never think to buy anything from the Friend Fairy, because first of all, buying friends from a fairy is very depressing, and second of all, I don't want friends. But, alas, Ken was there and he wasn't leaving there, and, after all, I was getting a free drink, so if I had the heart to ignore someone who was very desperately trying to spend time with me, and if I had the heart to let myself experience an "Ow, my feelings" drama act from Ken, and I ended up pretending that he wasn't there, tonight won't be so terrible. But, all things considered, it probably will be.