Usually these things start on the first day of something or on some sort of significant date, but I hadn't thought to do this then and I'm not waiting for another opportunity like that. I've forgotten what the day is, but I do know the month is April, and I'm pretty sure it's 2017. Who knows, it could just be 2016 trolling us.

As I mentioned in the prelude, I love my friends. Every one of them. We have our battles, but everyone does. That doesn't stop us from going out places and having a grand ol' time.

I must warn you, before we get into this, I'm pretty much the worst person ever. I'm cynical, I don't take anything seriously, and my emotional threshold, on a scale from one to ten, ten being the strongest it could be, is an eleven.

Now we begin.

I guess I have to do one of those things where tell you what I look like without being like "I have a European nose and my eyes are glassy green window to my very dark soul".

Queue dramatic narrator voice.

As I splash my face with the water pouring from my sink, I feel my soft, generic white-people skin against my fingertips. I look up into the mirror only to find the best eyebrows you'll ever see, wavy brown hair that creates a curtain of shame, and plump rose-colored lips that are only rose-colored because of a two dollar lipstick I bought at Walmart.

I could be lying about my eyebrows, but I guess you'll never know.

When I get done with my bathroom business, I shoot a text to the group chat to ask if anyone is on their way to get me from my dorm. Two of my friends, Ronnie and Lola, are roommates, so they often go on a hike around campus to collect the rest of those in this circle. Luckily, I'm always the last stop. Less walking for me.

Okay, I know I said I wouldn't start this on a significant event, but how else am I going to progress my story? Nothing interesting happened in the last week and I had to start this sometime.

So when I send the text, I hear running footsteps down the hallway. That's followed by the voice of my RA telling them to slow down, and then the voice of a familiar Reuben Swartz apologizing and picking back up his pace, completely ignoring Pauleen's wishes.

He knocked on my door, incessantly, even after I tell him I'm coming, he continues to knock.

When I open the door, he's all but keeled over. He's panting, propping himself up on his knees. Knowing him, he's probably only been running for 10, maybe 11 seconds.

Reuben is just...Reuben. He has his generic white-boy brown-hair-wall going on, along with his band/game/obscure company t-shirt under an 80's style windbreaker that he always wears, as you do. Always skinny jeans, always dad sneakers. He doesn't really understand the concept of buying new clothes. He also doesn't know how to wash a jacket. You fill in the rest.

Anyways, he rocks it.

"What happened?" I ask, exasperated.

He stops breathing for a moment, looks me in the eyes, says, "You'll see," grabs my hand, and pulls me out of my dorm.

He yanks me through the corridor and down the streets, knocking into people, tripping over cracks, jaywalking and other illegal street behaviors.

Suddenly, he stops. I of course keep going and run into him, but I blame 6th grade science for that.

Let me set this scene for you. Reuben and I are in the middle of the sidewalk surrounded by physically and emotionally drained college students. Reuben looks up in awe at this magnificent little building that was jammed into our already jammed street. He just sniffles and whispers the word "Pizza."

We have been looking for a place around us that had decent pizza for an empty-wallet price. This could be our only chance.

I look over at Reuben and ask if we're going to go in.

"Shh," he tells me, thrusting his hand in my face, still looking at the store front. "We must wait for the others."

I grab him by the wrist and pull him inside anyway.

"Table for five," I tell the host. "Never mind, four," I say after pretending to think about it.

The host was another guy in our circle, the jock, if you will. His name's Miles. He's an oaf.

He sighed ne rolled his eyes. "Where's Ronnie and Lola?" He has a very subtle Boston accent. I have a theory that he's a mafia reject.

"Their speed could not beat Reuben's excitement for pizza," I say patronizingly. "How'd you end up working here?"

"I may be dumb, Mal, but I can read. There was a help wanted sign outside for like two weeks. You didn't see it?"

Just then, an old lady pokes him in the back and tells him to get back to his stand, stop talking to customers, and to stop stealing her time, so Miles gives a salute and trots off.

Across the table, I see Reuben looking at his phone screen behind the table and notice his camera is pointed at me. Nothing new.

"My god, we told you to stop with that!" I exclaim, yet I still let out a small string of giggles while trying to maintain seriousness.

"But you'll look back on it and see it as one of those building-block moments for your future relationship," he says with a gallant tone.

I'm not a sap. I'm not one for romance. These people know that. However, it's like whenever Miles and I make eye contact, they freak out over how cute we are and how we should run off into the sunset.

I'm not a liar. I'm not big on faking feelings for a story. So, when I say I'm not into Miles, I mean it. Would it matter? No. Miles is gay. He confided in me a few weeks ago. I'm that friend, the one everyone goes to for advice.

Worry not, there is more exposition to come. Hopefully this tidbit is sufficient for the time being.