Sometimes, my friend Sarah and I like to imagine we are characters in an independent film with an especially long title. We’d like to think the critics would hate it, and college kids everywhere would quote it incessantly at coffee houses and bars. It would have cult-like following among kids with bad haircuts and bad attitudes. After a few months, quoting it would become passé, and no cool kid in his or her right mind would ever dare to utter our words in public.

We try to write this movie ourselves from time to time, but we can never agree on a set beginning or end or who of our friends would make the final cut. You see, Sarah and I carry an unwarranted air of superiority about our movie and not just any anecdote is worthy of precious screen time. Those independent movies with especially long titles are already too lengthy as it is.

For instance, last Saturday night before the riots, we arrived at Sarah’s house to find a few friends congregated on the rooftop, along with a girl in a red dress who we had never met before. We climbed the ladder to the roof and entered the house through the kitchen window, only to find a giant stack of dishes waiting for her in the sink. The girl began washing them, and the rest of us continued up the stairs to the attic where I asked our friends how they knew the girl in red.

“We thought you guys knew her,” one friend replied. “She just kind of climbed up the ladder and started talking to us.”

“Well, for a breaker and enterer she is pretty friendly,” Sarah said. “She is even doing the dishes.”

Truthfully, we were surprised something like that hadn’t already happened to us. We hope next time the stranger vacuums, too.

Our insatiable wanderlust would be an integral part of the story, as neither of us ever have enough gas to quench it. As a result, we often end up at Denny’s, where we consume copious amounts of coffee and make up life stories for the people a few tables over.

At an unfamiliar party a few weeks ago, we witnessed a glimpse of life on the “other side” of the beer pong table.

When we arrived, we noticed the “bros” of Kent were already present, armed with their white hats and popped collars. Several unidentifiable drinking games were being played, none of which we were interested in playing ourselves. It was as if we were completely invisible to everyone.

We introduced ourselves to the other girls at the party and were met with confusion.

“Hi, we’re Sarah,” we said, as they stared blankly at our faces before looking us up and down in disgust.

“Maybe we should have worn more sparkly attire,” I said as we walked away to an empty spot by the back wall.

“Or maybe we shouldn’t have come here,” Sarah replied. “I’m sorry I dragged you here.”

In silent agreement, we made our way through the crowded room to the front door. As we carefully shut it behind us, we confirmed the party was just a glimpse. The second we left, someone probably yelled “cut!” and all of the guests retired to hair and makeup chairs.

Maybe one day, we’ll make our terrible plotless independent film with an especially long title. But for now, talking about it is more fun. If you want a role in our instant cult classic, we are holding an open casting call at Denny’s.

Sarah James is a sophomore public relations major and columnist for the Daily Kent Stater. Contact her at [email protected].