Movies are misleading, make it seem like there’s a point in everyone’s life they sleep with a friend, that they end up together, that this problem in general fills the space of a ninety minute film, which converts to six months real time, unless it’s Linklater, Allen, or Burns.
Even if we’re allowed discretions and I have it on authority we are – forgiveness is a sorry away – life’s more awkward than Natalie Portman, not polished like Timberlake. We’re not attractive and slick yet unlucky in love. We’re just unlucky. We don’t compulsively fuck who we know because they told an awesome joke once, they notice us lose weight. Or when we do we call it ‘mistake’.