The Gavel's Diatribe acts as the satirical medium for short rants over topics ranging from complete triviality to utmost importance.
Arguably, the most heartbreaking thing in the world is when your best friend gets a boyfriend. It’s truly excruciating. Earth shattering. Deep, dark depression plunging.
I am incredibly dramatic. But this was really hard on me.
I was a freshman during COVID times when trauma bonds were all the rave. Your friends were the people who lived on your floor or who messaged you on Zoom chat about the homework. The flames of friendship burned bright and fast.
There were few survivors.
Those of us who made it out with friends who didn’t transfer or still liked us recognized the gift we had. We cherished the relief of freshman year tension, and for better or worse, ignored what was left of the raging pandemic.
In order to make up for lost time, my friend and I spent every second of every day together. It was great! Why would I eat, sleep, or shit alone when I now had someone who was willing to do it all with me?
We also kept no secrets. Everything was a topic of conversation, and no stone was left unturned. We were (and still are!) especially skilled in talking about boys. Crushes were unpacked in painstaking detail. Many late nights were spent shifting through the backlogs of Twitter likes and MaxPreps’ rosters.
While I swam around in the sea of fantasy and pretend boyfriends, Miss Girl set her sights and started making plans. Before I knew it, she was half way down the aisle. Of course, I root for my friend, and after all of that stalking and scheming, it’s satisfying to record a success; however, you’re never prepared for them to fly the coop.
While they entered the honeymoon phase, I sat sad and alone in the coldness that only a twenty-one year old spinster would understand. What do I do with all the random stuff I know about him now? How many of the texts exchanged were co-authored by me? Where’s my dinner and movie? She got the boy, but I didn’t even get a good game. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little bitter.
I was so bitter. Still kind of am.
What’s worse is the degrading invitations to third wheel, followed by my shameless acceptance to join. Can someone die from third-wheeling? I might be in end-stage deadwood.
Though I may never understand why any friend of mine would need anything or anyone outside of the relationship I have with them, I have accepted my best friend’s boyfriend. He’s actually a pretty nice guy. Sure he’ll never be as funny, charming, or good looking as me, but sometimes it's nice to have someone who is wildly geriatric and childish around. Someone painfully annoying and slightly abrasive. Someone who included me when I thought everyone was moving on.
If you are reading this somewhere with a shit eating grin, you're not that bad.