The Poop Emoji Goes to Vegas
Inside a twenty-year friendship built on sarcasm, emotional damage, concert rituals, and one man’s ongoing belief that he is in witness protection.
READERS.
In less than 24 hours, the boys and I will once again be making a completely unnecessary, financially irresponsible, emotionally unstable pilgrimage to Las Vegas for Morgan Wallen.
And for those of you who are new here and thinking, “Aw, fun! A cute little best friend trip!”
I need to stop you right there.
Because this is not a cute little best friend trip. This is three adults packing themselves into a vehicle with iced coffee, concert tickets, questionable coping skills, and enough emotional history to qualify for its own museum exhibit.
So before we go any further, let me explain Bestie and me.
We have been “friends” for almost twenty years. And I use the word “friends” the way historians use “tensions were rising” right before introducing a war no one was emotionally prepared for.
Not because we were ever romantically involved. The man is 1000000% gay!
Let me say that again for the people in the back who like to create rumors out of thin air and boredom: Bestie and I have never been romantically involved. Do not even suggest it near him. He would sense the implication in the air, clutch his invisible pearls, and immediately file for emotional damages.
We are not that kind of complicated.
We are the other kind.
The kind where you have been best friends, sworn enemies, emotional support humans, co-conspirators, accidental therapists, and occasional public safety hazards for nearly two decades, and somehow nobody has made a documentary about it yet. Explaining our dynamic to strangers would require 30,000 words, a timeline, several witness statements, and one of those red-yarn conspiracy boards people keep in basements.
So here is the basic version:
He is my best friend.
I am his best friend.
Allegedly.
He does confirm this sometimes, usually when he is in a good mood, properly caffeinated, and has not recently been inconvenienced by my existence.
Now, if you follow me on Facebook, you may have noticed Bestie is almost always represented by a poop emoji in any photo I post of him.
This is not because I am bullying him. Okay, maybe spiritually a little. But the real reason is because Bestie lives his life like he is in witness protection.
I am not kidding.
This man does not want his face on the internet. Ever. Not in the background. Not partially hidden. Not from a flattering angle. Not even if the lighting is doing God’s own PR work. At some point when he was younger, he paid actual money to have his online existence scrubbed clean like he was preparing to testify against the mob.
Meanwhile, I am a woman who overshares on the internet like it is an Olympic sport. So naturally, through some clerical error in the universe’s HR department, we became best friends.
Now every photo of him requires a negotiation process.
“Can people see my face?”
“Crop that.”
“Zoom in.”
“No, not that one.”
“Put the poop emoji over it.”
So yes, Readers, while some people have friends who lovingly pose for vacation photos, I have a friend who must be digitally disguised like a fugitive in a true-crime reenactment.
And somehow, that is not even the strangest part of our friendship.
The strangest part is that this man does not let me touch him. If I so much as drift into his personal airspace, he reacts like I have breached a federal boundary line.
Full recoil.
Immediate distress.
“Why are you touching me?”
Every time.
Without fail.
And let me be very clear: this is just with me.
He hugs his husband.
He hugs his children.
He functions like a normal human being with the people he loves.
But me? His best friend of almost twenty years? I am apparently classified as a biohazard with acrylic nails. If my hand brushes his arm, he acts like I tried to steal classified documents out of his hoodie pocket. However growth has occurred. Over the last year, this man has started allowing me one hug per concert. Sometimes, if the stars align, the alcohol is right, and he has temporarily forgotten he hates affection from me specifically, I may receive a bonus hug. These moments are rare.
The hug is reserved for our song, because apparently our entire friendship has been built, repaired, destroyed, and rebuilt again through music. And because we are ridiculous people, we do not just have one “our song.” We have several.
For this weekend, the chosen anthem is “I’m the Problem.” Which honestly feels less like a Morgan Wallen song and more like a formal diagnosis of our entire friendship. Because if there has ever been a more accurate title for two people who have chosen each other for almost twenty years while also periodically making each other question every life decision that led to this point, I have not heard it.
He is my best friend. He is also the biggest pain in the ass I have ever willingly kept in my life. And unfortunately, I love him deeply.
So yes, Readers, we are going to Vegas. Bestie will be disguised by a poop emoji. Craig will be forced to supervise the two of us like a tired field trip chaperone. And I will spend the entire weekend trying to earn my one legally sanctioned concert hug without violating the invisible force field around this man’s body.
Pray for Craig.
Pray for the Tower Staff.
Pray for the emotional support Sphere we will all stare at lovingly at 2am like it has all the answers.
And honestly, pray for Morgan Wallen, because I do not think he knows the level of friendship dysfunction that is about to be emotionally projected onto his I’m Still the Problem concert this weekend.