The Room Where Everyone Talks About You Behind Your Back

Oh, that was nothing compared to the time she– Aw, fuck, you’re here? Ugh, alright, guys, pack it up. Yeah, break it all down. The projector, too. She fucking found us, I guess. God, why do you always do this?

Well alright. You caught us. This is the room where we’ve been meeting up every week to talk shit about you behind your back. We all know you’re a sensitive little baby who couldn’t handle being given criticism to her face, so every Tuesday during that weird evening time slot where nobody you call picks up we’ve been coming here, to this multipurpose room, to air out our grievances away from you.

Look, I know you probably think it was shitty of us to not tell you, but really it’s for your own good. Honestly, would you rather we say all of this to your face? You’d cry, I bet.

Think about how much work it took to get your mom, your brother, your dad, your other brother, all your friends, your dentist, your distant cousins, everyone from every class you’ve ever taken, your boyfriend who says he loves you all the time, your dental hygienist, every stranger you’ve ever interacted with in passing, and me, your best friend, all in one room to talk shit about you, and then to get them all to act nice to your face because we can all tell how low your self-esteem is—would we do all that if we didn’t care?

The answer is yes, we would. Even though we’re meeting every week to talk about you and have been intensively maintaining an ongoing conspiracy to ensure you think we like you, the truth is that none of us could care less if you lived or died. We’re just too aware of social niceties that you don’t understand to say anything about it.

And honestly, a couple of us pity you a little. Why? Oh, because we all know all about every insecurity you have and every mistake you’ve ever made.

Like, just before you walked in we were talking about that time you stuttered while ordering at Starbucks. Yeah, Gigi comes here too. Your barista, Gigi. Wow, you don’t know her name?

Anyway, she always has the funniest stories about how you get so nervous when you order and how the chip on your credit card never works the first time so you always have to swipe it and you look so stupid, and every time she tells them we all say, “Aw, that’s so sad! She’s such a loser!”

What? Sorry, no, I’m listening, for sure. I’m just thinking about how we go around in order of who’s known you the longest, starting with your mom and ending with the guy you matched with on Hinge three years ago, and everyone shares your worst quality, and we laugh and laugh because half of us said it’s that you’re just plain stupid. Good times.

You know we keep this running tally of how many times you fuck up? Just in your life? Fifty-five fuckups this month. Hey, a new record. Congrats!

These meetings have only gotten more fun since your airport crush figured out how to hook a laptop up to the big screen so we can all laugh at the stupid things you do that are caught on tape by the security cameras that film every move you make everywhere you go. Your boss brings popcorn for everyone. I love when we do that!

Or when we used to do that, I guess. Before you found this place. Ugh, honestly, I’m so bummed. We had so much fun without you. Fuck, and now we have to figure out a whole new setup? God, you really do ruin everything.

You know what? I have this super fun game we should play. You just need to close your eyes and cover your ears for a couple minutes, okay? Ready? Go.

Psst. Guys. We’re taking this to that abandoned mall on Third. I think if we squeeze it should fit us all. Alright, on my count we’re going to move out quietly. If we can get to the buses without her noticing I’ll buy you all ice cream and tell you about the time she peed her pants at the grocery store.