Are *Drinks after Work* in the Room With Us? How to Avoid Cults When Making Friends

Recently, I've been on the shlumpy lows of socialization and have been experiencing a common sequence of loneliness, that at this point is as unsurprising as a planned ritual; at least once a month, I have an incredibly exhilarating connection with a stranger and while I think about that brief moment of laughter, shared with someone who I'd assume I'd repulse, I shutter while noticing my head shape dents and curves in room for the future presence of a fedora and think: man, I need to find some sort of group hobby. A network, at least. Just to keep the self-hating mice away - Which in truth, I have! But before....let me just say the journey to find a good group had an extremely rocky, hilariously mortifying start.

So what comes from this incredible burst of confidence? Well usually, I start by finding my way into little social scenarios that I didn't research enough, check the vibe, or make the necessary boundaries, needed to protect myself if things get weird. The most recent one was a local book club. Unfortunately, I went into it incredibly and dangerously eager and did not consider what kind of company I could be keeping - Spoiler, the women were incredibly unfriendly. And my guess as to the reasons why they hated my guts is something I struggle to even want to get into. And it may be healthier for me if I resist the temptation to analyze why they looked at me with such eyes. Why the room got cold while I spoke to them like a potential friend?

I sat quietly in the circle because no one even uttered a hello. No one spoke until I stroke up a conversation with two women next to me, asking them more about the book club. Even those casual whispers were incredibly uncomfortable. Unable to "hear" me through my mask (I felt like I was screaming. I've had multiple occasions where I'm ignored, the conversation cut short, or frowned at for wearing a mask when no one else was.) and even when the other pockets of women spoke at a normal volume on the sidelines, the facilitator would say "Do you have something to add, ladies?" directly at both me, and the other people in the corner, and we would explain that I was just merely asking a question - it felt like I was being reprimanded by a teacher. It got so bad that the one closest to me said "She keeps talking to me, sorry." and I silently stewed for a while. Just until it was clear that the group expected me to join in on calling Amy Dunne from Gone Girl "a crazy, psycho-bitch" and I was honest with my feelings about another character - the room fell silent. The facilitator moved on to the next question and I could feel my soul leave my body through a nervous hiccup. My stomach acid, calmed itself, once I left quickly and quietly at the end.

To be ultimately unliked, even before my mouth gets the chance to join in on the group's displeasure, would normally make me feel horrified to be within my skin, except not now, when my bones feel a new perspective rubbing in between the gummy bits. The connected tissue, vibrating with a self, I've dug around for via C-Section: I've stumbled upon a group of some sort and interrupted the ceremony. I came in late, with the leader still speaking, knocking my knees loudly against the wooden pews, and ruined his flow with my echoing confusion. I've walked too far off the trail in the woods and stepped into a bonfire for only 20 naked bodies, no room for 21. I've marched my way into a barn, to avoid a harrowing storm and found myself amongst cannibalistic harvesters, reaping the season for their self-appointed, queen of the bookstore and I realized oh, of course! I breathed a sigh of relief, this is a cult. One I haven't been formally invited to. My mistake, my mistake.

Because of this embarrassing situation of mistaking a cult for a book club, I've decided to pause, collect, and circle back here with a reflective and compromised list of all the warning signs of the casual liturgy. Of a group, far too busy strategizing on how to bring new believers into the circle, to even notice that you've eaten up all the newcomer cheese. All the welcome wine, with the funny, sticky name cards placed next to them, written as "Star Child, (your name here)". Hopefully, this guide will help you find some friends that don't invite you to a local BYOCL (bring your own cult leader) brewery for your weekly trivia nights.

1. Don't trust a group of Nightgowns

Your first thought may be "Wow, so comfy!" but no. The opposite of comfort lies beneath those floofy linens. Those silky and polyester sheets - it is not a collective nap. It is not vintage pajama enthusiasts, ushering you down their makeshift corporate-arm-tunnels, with their screams of Welcome! completely dissected from an expectation of thanks. You, my friend, have been swindled rather quickly. Bamboozled by arguably the first glaring sign of death cult activity: if the doll Annabelle could rock it, you best be going. No matter how whimsical the evening starts to seem - Midsommar is not only on the horizon, but it's a cousin, hiding in and beneath the bushes. Waiting for you to mistake the white and pastel frolics in the woods as a relaxful re-telling of Tuck Everlasting.

2. It's not just the smell of fake silver.

We all have loved a statement piece. I was there. You were there. We were all there, deep in circa 2010; a time when sparkly owls roamed free in the jewelry department. When bedazzled, fake glasses and long, long feathered necklaces reached the top of your over-layered naval. Your torso suffocates beneath the number of ruffly v-necks that cover your body. Yes, things do come back in style (us surviving each cycle, just to witness it again, is oddly a weird flex to admit the crisis of pandemics), but the smell of corpses, even during the Tumblr romantic-goth and death-positive movement, was never Marc Jacobs by Marc Jacobs. Cursed and suspicious smells were never worn by Rhianna, nor were they ever discussed as an option via edgy and alternative fashion vlogs - You've been hexed by toxins! You've been given a token of poison with your fingers turned green, your neck broke out in hives, and your mind left completely spellbound by such generosity - Put that compromised toe ring down, now! Quick!

3. Why would a Peloton instructor need all that lumber?

Yes, they could just have a wood-burning stove instead of using gas or electricity. Yes, they could be using the old bones of an abandoned barn for their own vegan farm desires - but think about it. Why have you found yourself, you, a person dressed in printed yoga pants, carrying a beaten-up yoga mat, in the middle of an unnamed road? The directions, delivered to you by a person also enjoying some Great Steak in the food court, were written with their sender's sunken soil, stains directly from their discrete compound, and have suspiciously led you to an unfriendly place for phones. A corner in the woods, where the Peloton instructor who advertised "the natural sounds of the Forrest" is just capitalizing on the un-patterned sounds of your screams? Your fear, as they hunt you with their friends from the leader's hunting lodge? This was not the self-care you signed up for - Perhaps later, you can send them an email? Maybe demand, or at least ask, for your group's wine-or-die-for-the-ride deposit back?

4. It's Jared Leto.

He just leans into the whole, I'm-a-literal-cult-leader-love-and-light-gucci-ambessedor-flower-child-midwest-Jesus a little too much for it to be satirical, you know? And I get a grimy feeling whenever he's involved in a project, not just because it's likely to be bad, but there's definitely some blackmail synergy, surging within that batch of Kombucha; Be wary of dark movie theaters. Make sure before you sit, that Jared Leto has not slithered himself in between the scratchy fabric and the chair's foam insides. All leather must be examined through the crusty, butt-created tears for a pair of blue eyes, staring back - that's him! Right there, get him!