The rain hit the pavement in rhythmic taps, a metronome for my loneliness. I started my day feeling lower than a snake’s belly in a wagon rut. So I did what any self-respecting lost soul would do, I ate some bibimbap, took a relaxing bath, and set out to make a friend. The city was a jungle of lonely hearts, and I was just another lost wanderer looking for a connection.
Then I saw her. A dame with curls so perfect they could’ve been sculpted by the gods. We hit it off right away, or so I thought. But when I asked her about her values, she turned on her heel and left me sitting on a bench in the rain. Classic.
I did what any broken-hearted fool would do: I ate my sadness. Found a taco truck at the beach and drowned my sorrows in seasoned beef and regret. The rain poured down like the sky itself was weeping for my pathetic attempts at human interaction.
The taco lady, Sabrina Fitzgerald, seemed like a good candidate for friendship. I started making small talk, just dipping my toes into the social pool when—BAM!—my Zoi got distracted and wandered off to buy a soft drink. By the time I came back, Sabrina was back to work, and I was back to square one. Making a friend in this town was harder than finding a vegan at a steakhouse.
But tonight, there was a concert at the beach. A perfect place to find a friend, right? Maybe. Maybe not. While debating my social strategy, reality hit me, I needed a job. Word on the street was that a surf shop needed a cashier. I didn’t know a damn thing about surfing, but that didn’t stop them from hiring me. Finally, success in something.
Still riding the high of my unexpected employment, I looked around. The beach was empty. Like, deserted. I knew it was raining, but no one? Something fishy was going on. I needed to investigate.
On my way to the beach, however, I got sidetrackd by a duck spring see-saw. Call it fate. Call it avoidance. I call it an existential crisis in motion. But my duck-riding reverie was cut short by the screams of terrified amusement park guests. A roller coaster loomed ahead. For a brief, fleeting moment, I considered throwing myself onto it, what better way to escape loneliness than by defying death? But I settled for a ride on the merry-go-round instead. Alone. Again.
Four more hours until the concert. How was I supposed to kill time? The answer, my friends, was cotton candy. Somehow, I managed to eat it in the pouring rain without it dissolving into sugary sludge, a miracle in itself.
Then, I met Christian Sawyer, the cotton candy man. I tossed him a compliment. He liked it. Then, the game presented me with the option to kiss him on the forehead. Weird. Where was this forehead-kissing option for Curly Girl and Sabrina? Wait a minute… was I straight? Was inZoi forcing a hetero agenda on me?!
I had to know. I asked Christian about his preferences. He got mad. I tried to kiss his forehead anyway, because when you’re spiraling, why not? Turns out, forehead-kissing isn’t a great third interaction. Noted.
At the corner of the street, I spotted Preston, a young man sweeping away the filth of the city. I cheered him on, and he seemed to appreciate the recognition. Finally, was this the beginning of a beautiful friendship? We talked careers, video games, we laughed. Then, just when I thought we were concert-bound together, Preston leaped up mid-conversation and ran. Not walked. Ran. My ego shattered into a million pieces on the rain-soaked boardwalk.
I needed to think. A sad poop in a public restroom gave me the time for reflection. Was moving to this city a mistake? Was I doomed to eternal solitude? Was I the problem?
The answers weren’t in the toilet, so I went to the library. Reading made me tired, so I took a nap. The librarian’s forced smile told me she hated me, so I left, but not before putting on some music in a half-hearted attempt to brighten her day. I doubt it worked.
Then, I found myself digging for treasure in the mud at North Beach. And guess what? I struck gold, or rather, an enormous pearl. I was rich! Maybe money could buy me friends.
Just as I was basking in my newfound wealth, a lady started chatting with me. Progress! Then I put on my swimsuit, and she bolted like I’d just confessed to being a tax evader. Figures.
I was about to throw in the towel when a hot butch lesbian sat next to me. This is it, I thought. The silent companionship I was craving. Then I realized, she was sleeping. I took the hint and left her be.
That’s when I found them. A stunning duo: Kate and Allen. Just saying hello to them boosted my rhetoric level. This was my moment. The power of sweet, sweet Level 2 rhetoric surged through me. It was now or never.
Talking to Kate felt like stepping into another world. Suddenly, people surrounded me. I was interesting. And while my original goal was to befriend Kate, I also hit it off with Jessica, a pink-haired, leopard-print-wearing legend.
Allen, however, turned out to be less cool than his neck tattoo suggested. He got jealous when I talked to Kate. He left in a huff, only to return multiple times to insult me and dramatically storm off again.
Eventually, I told him his behavior was creepy and to get lost. Kate was impressed. We bonded over it, took selfies, dabbed,you know, the usual friendship rituals.
We became best friends. And like a fool, I did what every straight cis man in a rom-com does, I asked her out. She said she wasn’t ready. I had almost destroyed a perfect friendship, so before my idiocy could cause more damage, I said my goodbyes, went home, ate soup, and collapsed into bed at precisely 7:30 PM. What a day… SHIT! I had forgotten about the concert.
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