Buzzfeed, Boys, Black Magic

the two-pronged, pothead pickle

It's funny the reaction people have when you call them on the phone.

There was a time you could pick up your phone, punch in your best friend's phone number, and casually chit-chat about boys, or your shit job, or how strange, supernatural forces are hell-bent upon disrupting every life plan you ever made.

Nowadays, you call someone and they freak out. It doesn't even matter what time of day it is. You could call them at 4 in the afternoon, or 4 AM. The same thing will happen. They won't pick up at first, like they think you accidentally dialed them, and will catch your own error. After a couple rings in, though, you will have made your actual intention to call them blatantly clear. And then, all sorts of horror stories must run through their heads because they'll never pick up with an everyday "Hey." You always get a palpably-alarmed, adrenaline-infused: "What's wrong?"

Here's a word of genuine advice:

When you call your best friend at 4 AM, and she answers the phone with panic in her voice and that usual, palpably-alarmed question, do not respond with "everything." Unless everything is well and truly on fire.

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST LEELA." Abby probably woke up her mother, "I HAVE TO BE AT WORK IN TWO HOURS AND YOU CALL ME TO TELL ME THAT?"

"I don't think you understand," I said, "this is a huge problem for us-"

"You got me all scared and thinking you're pulling a Tabitha on me." 

Tabitha was Abby's college roommate. Tabitha is currently institutionalized in a mental ward for the criminally insane. There's this whole story about her ex-boyfriend, a suicide attempt, rutabagas in a souped-up exhaust pipe, I won't get into it. All I will say is any comparison to Tabitha will make me jump out of (almost) any neuroticism of mine.

"I just needed someone to talk to," I said. "I mean, how am I supposed to raise babies with-"

"I'm working the ICU tomorrow," Abby moaned. "Can't be giving out the wrong medications or injecting the wrong injections. There's no room for error at those people's point-"

"I could hang up," I offered. I didn't mean it.

"I'm up, might as well stay up," Abby said. I could tell she wasn't very happy with me. "So you finally asked Buzzfeed, and they told you what?"

What I then explained to Abby was the worst pickle I had found myself in since I nearly failed sociology in 9th grade. Actually, this pickle was substantially worse than that pickle. This pickle had actual, real-life ramifications. It also had two prongs.

The first prong was this: On a whim, I took the Plan the Ideal Honeymoon and We'll Tell You When You'll Meet Your Soulmate quiz. I chose a desert resort in Arizona (imagine the night sky there. An astronomer's dream). The answer Buzzfeed gave me? Three weeks.

Three fucking weeks.

"First off," I sputtered at Abby. "What kind of loser is my soulmate going to have to be for me to meet him in three weeks? I'm not getting out of this shit-town anytime soon, and-"

"BAD ATTITUDE. You have no idea who you're going to run into. This is a very exciting, good thing-"

"Sure, fair," I interrupted, "but there's still the second prong."

"Oh I'm sorry, the second prong," Abby said. "By all means, prong me, bucko."

The second prong, for all Abby's jest, was the critically painful element here.

I needed to know what kind of person my soulmate was going to be, so I could at least know where to look for him. I spent thirty, sweaty-palmed minutes scrolling through pages and pages of Buzzfeed quizzes. And yet I couldn't find a single Pick your Preferred Method of Suicide and We'll Tell You Your Soulmate's Full Name, Social Security Number, and Health Insurance Provider option (even though I could have sworn I had seen something to that effect on the front page yesterday).

The closest thing I could find was: Pick Your Least Favorite Root Vegetable and We'll Tell You Who Your Next Boyfriend Will Be. After all, I had spent twenty-three years essentially single. I assumed that I would remain so until my soulmate showed up in three weeks. So I picked rutabagas (shuddered) and hoped for certified public accountant or home owner or dad material.

I got lovable pothead.

To make matters worse, this result came with a fun little description.

"It said he may not be a career-minded guy, but he knows how to have a good time," I whimpered at Abby, "does that sound like he only smokes socially?"

"All I'm saying is that people overuse the word pothead. Like, if he can hold down a job and shower every day, is it that bad?"

"It also said you may have to be the one directing the relationship," I read the result off my phone. I noticed then that my hands were trembling. "I can't even direct my own life, how am I going to be directing an entire relationship. What about our babies-"

"This went from 0 to 100 real quick," Abby said. "Look, you probably won't have to worry about babies for at least another five years unless somebody fucks up."

"HE'S A POTHEAD," I exploded. "WHAT MAKES YOU THINK HE WON'T FUCK UP? HE IS EXTREMELY LIKELY TO FUCK UP."

"Okay, calm down," Abby said. "You're making a bunch of assumptions here-"

"I AM A SCIENTIST. I TOOK STATISTICS. CORRELATION OFTEN EQUALS CAUSATION, AND ANYBODY WHO SAYS OTHERWISE IS A BASKET-WEAVING, BLEEDING-HEART BUFFOON."

"Wow," Abby exhaled. "I can't believe I woke up for this."

I massaged my forehead.

"Okay, too far. I apologize-"

"I mean, so the quiz said your soulmate is a pothead," Abby said, "Maybe he's just a pothead currently. Maybe he'll turn into-"

As Abby tried to talk some reason into me, I glanced back down at my phone screen and the Buzzfeed quiz result still up on it.

I re-read the title. Pick Your Least Favorite Root Vegetable and We'll Tell You Who Your Next Boyfriend Will Be. Boyfriend, I thought. Boyfriend. Boyfriend != soulmate.

A wild idea overtook me.

"-and even though he spent four years in jail, he was a good dad by-"

"ABBY," I interrupted. "The second prong quiz said next boyfriend, not soulmate. If I date and break up with a pothead in the next few weeks, I could circumvent Buzzfeed."

"You wouldn't technically circumvent it," Abby said. "But I guess that's a plan."

"I just need to find a pothead who'll be my boyfriend in the next week or so. How hard can that possibly be?"

Abby's silence was disquieting.

"You there?"

"Uhm," Abby creaked, "I hate to break it to you, kiddo, but speaking from experience here. Potheads are usually commitment-phobes. Not saying it can't be done, but-"

I thought then about murdering Jonah Peretti as retribution for the sheer evil his media empire had wrought upon the free world.

***