Becky: A highly basic individual who thinks only about herself and is highly susceptible to societal pressures
Narrator: A third party, omnipresent observer, not immune to judgment; aka the voice of reason
Date: Becky’s personal meat stick
A Saturday night. Becky is going on a first date with a random assumedly one-dimensional guy who she picked up at a bar to impress some friends. Her expectations and feelings of self worth are soaring far too high. Standards for her own behavior, incredibly low.
5:30 p.m.: Becky is looking at herself in the mirror and giving herself a pep talk.
Becky: Alright. It is almost time to go pick him up. You look sleek, like a stallion. That 10 minutes of effort you just put into your hair was seriously worth it. Slowly turn around annnddd BOOM. I’d hit that. In a totally two-hoes-chilling-in-a-hot tub-five-feet-apart-cuz-they’re-not-gay sort of way, obviously. You do not want this guy thinking you’re weird, even if it’s just going to be a hit-and-run scenario. God, why has society made it so that it feels like girls are expected to pretend to be nice humans and buy guys dinner. Why can’t I just let my inner jerk shine and not worry about making him feel respected. He is just a meat stick to me, anyway. A story for Wednesday trivia night with the ladies. Another notch in my white nautical Abercrombie belt that I weirdly still have, so to speak.
Narrator: Who does this bish think she is?
Becky: Ugh, whatever. I will be nice. I CAN be nice, okay Susan!
Narrator: Poor Susan.
Becky: For Christ’s sake, why does my mother always pop into my head when I’m about to go on a date? Such a buzzkill.
5:45 p.m.: Becky’s date, who has absolutely no backstory because she has already decided he is just a meat stick, is giving himself his own pep talk.
Date: Why did I pick these pants?! Oh, God. Is this V-neck too deep? What is going on with my hair? Why does it suddenly want to pretend that there is 100 percent humidity?! I literally checked the weather 30 times today and NOT ONCE did it say it was going to be this humid. What the f*ck. Now all that time I spent blow drying will just go to sh*t, and I am going to look like a giant frizzball in tight pants. Since when were these pants so tight? You can see practically everything! I have not done squats in months, so I am thoroughly confused. Can someone please explain why my body has spontaneously decided to be thicc in all the wrong places? Oh, no. I hope I am not going to give this girl the wrong idea. Why has society made it so that people assume consent just based on clothes? Why do I even need to care about this sh*t? You are kind. You are smart. You are-
5:50 p.m.: Knock at the door.
Date: She’s here. Please don’t be a f*ckgirl, please don’t be a f*ckgirl.
Date: Aw, sh*t.
Narrator: Aw, sh*t.
Becky: Goddamn look at those pants. And that V though? He got some serious chest hair, oh my. He is totally DTF. I am into it.
Narrator: He was not into it.
Date: She’s a f*ckgirl. The boys were right. Let’s hope this date is quick and this night uneventful.
Becky: I’m gonna make his year! By the end of tonight he will be begging for all of this.
The pair gets in Becky’s car and drives away.
Narrator: Becky picked a mediocre restaurant and bar and was overly touchy. Her date downed too white wines in an effort to calm his nerves. Becky misread all possible social cues and asked her date back to her place. In an effort to avoid sketchy sex, her date politely declined and Ubered home to finish watching his favorite season of The Great British Baking Show (the one with Frances and Ruby). Becky — disappointed that the tight pants proved a false predictor yet still convinced that the date’s failure was not at all her fault — fell asleep on her vibrator.