With all sincerity and honesty, I don't know why I'm here. Our friend group, on impenetrable, was now a congregation of Instagram acquaintances —who, at this moment, were more performative friends. We went from wine nights and chain text to a pack of actresses pretending to be something that had passed. Julie Marks, my once-great who introduced me to my first husband and my second husband, seemed like a stranger who had morphed into a platinum-blonde Karen complete with the demeaning tone of voice, "Will all have glasses of water with lemon, and, like, are these the only wines you have?" She asks the server with a gaze of condemnation—not taking her eyes off her prey. After being told there was only one wine list, she made a snide comment to our server as if he had the power to change the wine list. "Well, you should have more options available." Looking at her like the asshole she was being, our server sharply turns his back to Julie and walks away. "There goes his tip she snips, not realizing our checks will come with a 20% gratuity. The only defence for her behaviour is that last year, her husband, Josh, had begun an affair with Mary Agnes. 19-year-old, great rack, and their babysitter. In between posting newsreels from a deranged, racist criminal and now the GOP front runner for a presidential candidate who she loves, and unfounded home remedies cures. She keeps this fact quiet; I learned about this after speaking to someone from between a series of TiK-Tok, GIFs, and memes. However, Julie Marks wasn't the only one. Hillary Rice had a fascinating life, from what I could guess.

Once, my California-sober friend in this group, believe me, you need a level-headed person in a pack of Queen Bees who took to binge drinking before she left her husband for Everette, the Rasitta Creek Golf Resort Clubhouse Manager. Over the years, her husband George had become a chubby grouch who was not in excellent health. She was never one to roll with punches. A myriad of punches had been thrown her way: bad reviews for her CNA business, a sick husband who she had grown to hate, and a troubled son—who overly enjoyed playing with guns alone in his bedroom while drowning himself in conspiracy theories on the dark web, finally, had a well deserved mental breakdown. Of course, her divorce decree was avaiable on the internet. My suspicion was aroused after her abrupt posting of anything related to her husband. She stopped posting those enviable vacation pictures at exotic locations, no food photo dumps from five-star restaurants,  and the sudden influx of pictures of her new man, who none of us had ever met.

My life, where do I start? I quit my job at Fern and Loy Graphic Design. My finances are a disaster; I’m barely affording this lunch, I abuse my Adderall and don't sleep, and I’m losing my hair. “Wow, you’re so bold,” I hear all the time. It’s so condescending, and all I want is to not shave my head anymore. Why not a wig? A good lace front is $1000.00, so shaved bald and door knocker earrings it is.  I didn't race to  share my issues either, over the phone or otherwise, so why should Julie and Hillary?  

I guess we all lose track of each other at some point. We forget to text for that one birthday and say will catch them next year, but then next year comes, and then we forget again. It’s a trip, sitting amongst women I used to be so close to, but  far away from now. I guess that's what happens when we live our lives out on social media.