The Bestest Friend and I have an understanding; we are each others’ bestest friends but have other best friends: those met in college, those more compatible to our individual personalities. The need to differentiate and title friends is one reason, among many, why most females perpetually live in middle school (if not younger). For those who don’t partake in this ranking system, the contrast equates to the differentiation between maid-of-honor and bridesmaids (for example, hypothetically, if I were to ever get married and if I were to decide a wedding would trump eloping –which I highly doubt), a slight recognition but still tiered.

She was out with some of her best friends last night who wanted to broach the subject of her best-friend hierarchy.

“[Bestest Friend], the three of us are best friends, right?”

“Oh yes! Of course we all are!”

And then, with solemnity, the friend answered, “Well, sorry, but then you’re gonna have to get rid of Molly.”

To keep from laughing, she immediately excused herself to the restroom to call me and pseudo-sadly inform me, “Mol, sorry, but [friend] says that we can’t be friends anymore.”

Surpringly, the friends refrained from asking her to un-invite me to her birthday and to ban me from riding my bike on the street in front of her house. With that restraint, they are more mature than I give them credit.

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