There are candy wrappers littering the coffee table, empty beer cans lined up along the tv stand. I laugh, a deep, loud laugh from my belly as my best friend presents the most absurd situations he’s encountered this week to me as if we are in show and tell.
I took a quiz that told me I’m a Samantha, he’s a Miranda; neither of us has watched much of the show. I cackle as we watch snapchats from my husband and he offers up another peanut butter cup.
I take it and we line up a true crime documentary. We change into pajamas, down another couple beers.
Slumber parties are very different now that I’m an adult; for one, it can (and will) last for a week. There’s no one to tell you to quiet down and go to bed when it’s late and you get slap-happy. You have to provide your own snacks.
Which we did, with alacrity. We have homemade bread to eat with some of the best chili I’ve had in ages, Korean stews, twizzlers, chips, frozen strawberries and cheese. We go out to bars for cheese curds and even have a fancy Martini Lunch.
We continue to take personality quizzes and marathon our latest reality tv obsession until there are no more episodes left. We take some weed gummies and do face masks.
It’s summer, school’s out, we have a week to do fuck-all. Why not have a week-long sleepover for the gods?