Two things to know about [Friend #1]: he loves his [soft drink] in large quantities, and he is a vehement teetotaler. He has recently moved from a rural farmhouse (owned by his grandfather) to a small town, which means he is relatively new to the experience of having actual, walking-distance neighbors. This conversation happens while we’re visiting some mutual friends.

Friend #1: “Turns out my neighbors are smokers. Having to work around those fumes really makes me understand how bad an addiction really is.”

Friend #2: “What do you mean?”

Friend #1: “Well, I like [soft drink], right?”

Friend #2: “I’d call that a little more than ‘like’.”

Friend #1: “So would I. Thing is, though, if me having a can of [soft drink] meant I had to sit outside in the blazing sun and force the senses of everyone around me to suffer the byproducts of my indulgence, I wouldn’t drink [soft drink] at home.”

Me: “How exactly would you ‘force someone’s senses to suffer’ from you having a [soft drink]?”

At this moment, [Friend #3], who has been enjoying her own carbonated beverage, unleashes the LOUDEST, LONGEST belch that I have ever heard in person. She immediately covers her mouth in embarrassment as silence falls on the table.

Me: “Fair point.”

[Friend #3] started laughing as she realized her unintentional timing, and the rest of us joined in.

It’s my third class of the day, history, at 11:30 am. Despite the early time, I’m exhausted, meaning I don’t have much of a filter. My history professor is having us answer questions about the Constitution as a refresher before the lesson. If someone gives the right answer — or even tries — he gives them a chocolate.

The professor clicks to the next slide.

Professor: “Okay. In two sentences, explain what the Constitution consists of.”

Me: “I don’t know. Words?”

Professor: “…”

The professor slowly handed me a chocolate as the class laughed.

Around the time I was around nineteen or twenty years old, I used to work in a small security job. We were basically a third-party company hired for different events such as concerts, festivals, soccer games, etc., AKA “Rent-A-Cops”. Despite being looked down on for being a younger female compared to the rest of my team, I was always placed at the entrances for the artists to check credentials because I was one of the few who would actually do my job and stop people from going where they were not supposed to go.

This includes the artists of the venue I’m working at, and I’ve had complaints — mostly from rappers or athletes — for not letting them on stage or having the audacity to stop them, period. This is mainly because I have anxiety and I would rather get in trouble for doing what I’m SUPPOSED to do rather than get in trouble for doing something I DIDN’T do. I also don’t keep up with WHO the artists are; I just listen to their music, and it’s not like the security company provides us with pictures to show us who certain people are. To be honest, they shouldn’t have to when credentials exist for a reason!

The main artist of the concert I’m working at has a band name dedicated to imagining a mythical beast. He usually comes in and out through my entrance surrounded by his personal security, and while I am a HUGE fan of the band, I’ve never seen the band’s music videos, so I’m not familiar with his appearance and I hardly see his face since he’s crowded by people.

At one point, one of his security managers walks in and out of the entrance I’m at like he’s looking for something before turning to me.

Manager: “Hey, have you seen [Name]?”

Me: “Um… I don’t know. The shorter guy in the green shirt?”

He gives me a very strange look.

Manager: “No… the tall guy in the red shirt.”

Me: “…”

Manager: “Super tall. Blonde? You know… [Name]!”

I just blink owlishly, trying to figure out why I should know who he’s talking about.

Manager: “THE SINGER?!”

Me: “Oh! Uh, no, he hasn’t been through here.”

He just stared at me for a second longer before leaving with a shake of his head. I, too, was pretty disappointed in myself for not even knowing the singer’s name.

I am working at home while trying to manage my young children during the health crisis. I hear the doorbell ring and look through the peephole to see a salesman who has ignored the “No Soliciting” sign as well as our local Stay At Home orders. He sees movement and begins to knock as well as ring the doorbell. I sigh and begin to look for a mask when my three-year-old, already masked, opens the door by himself.

Three-Year-Old: “Are you Amazon?”

Salesman: “No.”

My three-year-old slammed the door, and the salesman walked away!

I work in a pharmacy. To pick up certain medications, you have to show a government-issued ID. A gentleman shows me an ID that is obviously fake. His picture is squished from top to bottom as though he just tried to resize it to fit it in the space, and the ID has no security hologram or anything else that we check for.

Me: “Sorry, sir, I can’t accept this.”

Customer: *Immediately on edge.* “Why not?”

I try to be diplomatic and not say that I know it is a fake ID.

Me: “It’s not a valid ID.”

He tries to convince me for five minutes. Eventually, I ask:

Me: “Is there anyone with you who does have a valid ID?”

He brings over his wife and explains the situation.

Wife: “Oh, no problem.”

And she pulls out a binder with card-sorting plastic pages (like for baseball cards) with pages and pages of equally bad fake IDs for the man, each with that same squashed picture. She probably has one for every state. She starts to pull one out to show me.

Me: “Uh, that’s okay. None of those will work, either. And it’s none of my business, but don’t ever show one of those if the cops pull you over.”