BITCH FEST
Straight talk from one man who has been watching the whole thing unfold and saying nothing. Until now.
The 24-Hour Emotional Drive-Thru
Dear Bitch Fest,
I love my friend. She calls me crying every two weeks, talks for an hour, feels amazing, hangs up. Has never once asked how I am. I've started screening her calls and then crying about THAT. What's wrong with me?
The 24-Hour Emotional Drive-Thru, Dubai
Nothing is wrong with you. You are a Tim Hortons drive-thru and she pulls up every two weeks, orders a large trauma, double-double, takes it to go, and never tips.
Let's be clear about the transaction. She hangs up feeling like a new woman. You hang up feeling like you've been emotionally deboned. One of you is getting therapy here and it's free and it isn't you.
If this pattern feels familiar, our piece on friendship dynamics breaks down exactly why some friendships tip so one-sided — and what to do about it.
I once had a friend like this. I'd see his name on my phone and feel my soul do that thing your stomach does on a turbulent flight. Forty-five minutes of his problems, and the second I said "actually, funny you should ask, my week's been", he'd go "oh hey, my Uber's here." His Uber was always there. He lived nowhere near Ubers.
You already know the answer. You wrote in hoping I'd give you permission to stop picking up. Done. Granted. Signed. Let it ring.
She'll be fine. She'll find another drive-thru by Thursday.
Hostage in the Group Chat
Dear Bitch Fest,
The class parent WhatsApp has 41 unread messages before 9am. One mom communicates exclusively in three-minute voice notes. People reply "thanks!!" to all 30 of us. I muted it, missed something real, and now I'm too scared to leave. Send a rescue helicopter.
Hostage, Group Chat 7B, Toronto
There is no helicopter. There's never been a helicopter. There is only you, 41 unread messages, and a woman named probably Sharon leaving a voice note about whether the field trip needs a packed lunch that is somehow longer than the actual field trip.
Here is the thing nobody will say. Every single person in that chat is a mother. Every one. Somewhere out there is a father with a phone, a thumb, and a full calendar awareness of zero, and not one person has ever thought to add him, because the universe decided long ago that knowing the snack schedule is women's work, like it's 1840 and snacks are butter you have to churn.
I'm a dad. I have twins. I have been in exactly one of these chats for approximately four minutes before I muted it so hard it filed a missing person's report. Nobody chased me. Nobody will chase you either, but somehow you're the one who feels guilty. Wild.
Treat it like email. Check it twice a day. Reply to nothing with an exclamation mark in it. And Sharon, if you're reading this, type it out. Type it out, Sharon.
The Coffee That Never Comes
Dear Bitch Fest,
There's a friend I keep bumping into. Every time, we scream "we HAVE to get coffee!" We mean it with our whole chests. It has been three years. At this point is this a friendship or just two women yelling beverage plans at each other in a parking lot?
Perpetually Rescheduling, London
It's the parking lot one. I'm sorry. You knew that. You wrote in anyway because you wanted a stranger to say it so it would count.
"We have to get coffee" is the most beautiful lie two people can tell each other. It's warm, it's sincere, and it has the structural integrity of a wet paper bag. You both mean it. Meaning it is free. Doing it requires choosing this person over your couch on a Tuesday, and your couch is undefeated. Your couch has never let you down. Your couch doesn't make you put on real pants.
I do this. I have a guy I've been "grabbing a beer with soon" since roughly the Obama administration. We see each other, we do the handshake-hug, we say it, we leave. Two men maintaining a lovely fiction across a widening canyon of time.
But here's the part the comedy is covering for. "We have to get coffee" is not a plan. It's a tiny funeral for a friendship neither of you wants to be the one to bury. So you keep it on its feet, propped up in a parking lot, because a fake friendship that's technically still alive hurts less than admitting the real one quietly ended.
So here's your choice. Send a date with an actual number in it and find out if there's a person there or a parking lot. Or don't, and let it rest in the peace it's clearly asking for. Just stop yelling coffee. The coffee isn't coming.
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