3EarlyProject

I don't want to drink tonight, but I have nothing better to do. My best friends, my roommates, are going out. They're already dancing around the apartment with homemade sangria, their favorite pregame drink. I'm not in the mood, really, but since I'm 23 and it's a Friday night, I know I need to rally. Apple, you have to come out with us. It's not even optional. I can just imagine Jasmine saying it now. Since I recently started my sales job, I've been working hard. Honestly, I'm tired, but it seems the only quality time I can spend with my friends are weekend nights. I look through my closet and swipe through my hangers, but I hate everything I own. Maybe my roommates would have some cute options for me. I borrow their clothes a lot, but I don't want to do it too often and overstep. My mom told me that female friendships were hard to find and even harder to keep. This was probably because my mom didn't have many girlfriends. She obsessed over men and left her friends to the dust. That was said once by her ex-best friend in a drunken fight that ended with a slam door and 11 years of silence between my mom and her. I had overheard. I wasn't even eavesdropping. We lived in a trailer and the only door to slam was the front door. I always heard everything. And after that fight, the only female relationship my mom had was with me. That's why she named me Apple, even though I hate it. In school, I was always laughed at. They would call me Honeycrisp and Red Delicious, and if the boys were feeling particularly cruel, Granny Smith. I remember crying on the bus and all the way home, pleading my mom for a different name, but she wouldn't ever budge. There are much worse things to be made fun of for, Apple. Like the stick in your cute little apple skin. Then my mom would pinch my cheeks and remind me why I was named Apple in the first place. Because she'll always pick me. And it was true. My mom did always pick me. Actually, she picked a lot of people, including a slew of loser boyfriends that never gave me the time of day. One or two were such losers that they insinuated they would give me the time of night. I ultimately decided to wear my own clothes to the bar. I wore the 20-something uniform, jeans, and a tight black top. My roommates wore the same. Together, we looked interchangeable. We briskly walked down the block, laughing at our pseudo-heartache and the boys we were nervous to see tonight. Our heels clicked on the pavement, heralding our posse before we even turned the corner. My friends and I go to Lucky's, our favorite bar, so we breeze past the bouncer line and walk inside. This always makes me feel cool. The bouncers have chosen my friend, my friend, to cut the line. Life is much better when you're picked. I'm reminded how lucky I am to have picked such good friends. My roommate Jasmine opens a tab for everyone besides me because I get my own. I am planning on drinking quite a bit tonight, and I don't want to deal with the hassle of being on someone else's tab. My mom always owed her boyfriend money, and I just hated that feeling. Obligation. If my mom's boyfriend had bought us dinner or helped us with rent, then I somehow would be obligated to let him cop a feel. In the background. You're talking to someone over here. How did you get that? I didn't. What? I don't know. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. Lucky's. 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