The Unimaginable Euphoria of Actually Enjoying Your Friend's YouTube Video
Sweet merciful Jesus Christ, I thank you for giving me the gift of genuine laughter
You love these friends you’ve found; this collection of distinct personalities that somehow, despite the odds, catalyze and supercharge one another. It’s a feat — particularly in this atomized day — to assemble such a fine group of beloved individuals. Many personality types do not mix, but this recipe is good.
Nothing can ruin this friend group, you think, searching for some wood to knock before realizing that nobody would get it because they can’t, actually, read your thoughts (though, like with all great friendships, sometimes it seems the opposite). It’s a cold evening (this lets me set the stage for everyone being inside, dear reader — expert tips from an expert writer), and you’ve gathered to share in food and drink; laughter and tears; warmth and comfort and safety. Yes, you are safe indeed. This friend group has survived many trials, and come together all the stronger each time. Nothing will rip you apart. No challenge could eve—
“Guys, you have to see this,” shouts Oscar, diverting the conversation away from the last time each of them had pondered the Roman Empire. Oscar is drunk and has lost much of his judgment — this he is wont to do. “This is the funniest video I’ve ever seen!” he continues.
Your heart skips a beat, and then another. It chances a third, decides it’s rested for quite long enough, and screams into gear. Ba-dum, ba-dum, badumbadumbadumBADUMBADUMBADUMRUNRUNYOUAREGOINGTODIE it cries. Your heart is wise beyond its years.
You sneak a glance at Rachel. She’s already looking back. Raw panic — sadness, also — lies in your eyes. No words are exchanged; sheer volumes of understanding are passed through the simple medium of knowing glance. You know what must be done, but do either of you have the strength to do it?
Oscar fumbles with his phone, finding it troublesome to connect to Mike’s Apple TV via Google Cast. Your friend group — being composed of civilized adults — mostly own Apple products, and Oscar is the oft-mocked Android soyboy exception. Today, though, you cherish his intellectual and technological inferiority. He won’t be able to connect to the TV, you reassure yourself. A few more seconds of this and we can convince him to just—
“Oh, there it goes,” he delights, sealing your intwined fates.
Your eyes meet Rachel’s once more; you know now that you cannot run from this fate, this one doom. Your actions are written in a pact made long ago; one you do not intend to break now. You stand up, walk to the kitchen — your friends’ backs turned to you as they sit, steel-faced, staring at the TV, waiting for their doom to begin and (finally) end — and brace yourself on the counter.
Fear is the mind-killer, you whisper. You welcome the fear; bathe in it; rinse yourself off. You fix yourself a drink (top-shelf bourbon, neat), down it at once, slap yourself in the face. No more delays. You open the leftmost drawer (Mike’s designated random shit container), then the hidden compartment within, and pull out that which lies there. Keeping it concealed from the others, you walk back and take your seat next to Oscar.
“Finally,” he says. He should not be so eager. “Okay so this video is basically, like, you know that, uh… that like… the— the argument about bears and men and stuff? This is like a street sketch or whatever about that but also like what if the other option were Julius Caesar!”
Jesus Christ, Oscar.
Forced polite encouragement — the smallest amount possible — is tenth-heartedly issued by your fellow inmates in this prison of utmost torture. You glance at Rachel once more, but she cannot bear to return it. She knows what is to come. Sweat and dread pouring down your face, you aim your gun — hidden from view by your pillow — directly at the side of Oscar’s torso.
It will be a painful death from this angle; you know this; you wish it not to be so; you accept it regardless. The hollow-point will enter Oscar at a level angle, piercing through his ribs, ripping apart the lower section of his left lungs, leaving him confused and terrified and drowning in blood and shrapnel in his final moments. Why have you made me do this?! you whisper to yourself, so quietly you can’t hear it yourself. Part of you wishes that Oscar would hear, so he might at least fight for his life with dignity.
The video starts. You watch, and prepare — like all the rest in that room — to offer clearly-fake laughter so as to spare Oscar’s feelings. Unlike the others, though, you’re prepared to offer much more: a bullet to the fucking lungs. You disengage the safety and put your finger on the trigger.
Then, something entirely unexpected: forced laughter of a different kind. Genuine laughter. The kind of laughter one can’t fake; the kind of laughter one can’t hold back. Bewildered and shocked, your attention is fixed on the screen; you cannot look away, nor do you want to.
How can this be? How could Oscar defeat the odds? How can one man go against this great truth — that forcing people to watch a minutes-long video is an ill-fated errand — that has doomed so many men and women in our time? No answer comes to you, but it doesn’t matter: you have the evidence of your eyes and ears. Oscar’s lungs have been saved, at the expense of your own.
You withdraw your weapon, hiding it in the couch. Ashamed, you look back at Rachel one final time. Joy fills both pairs of eyes as they meet: we have all survived another day. You, your friends, and even Oscar will go home, the greatest consequence of the night being a splitting hangover. Truly, nothing can come betwe—
“Have you guys seen this one?” asks Samantha, as she takes control of the stream and queues up another video.
Your heart skips a beat, and then another.
Dear coworkers: I actually genuinely and truly enjoyed each of the videos that were shared during our trip, which was frankly surprising and was what inspired this post. Don’t read anything into this.