Ever notice how people say one thing but expect the complete opposite? Like when your girlfriend asks if her outfit looks good and you hesitate for a microsecond before responding? That hesitation might as well be a goddamn death sentence. Similarly, our potluck protagonist has stumbled into the existential quicksand of contradictory social expectations—where "don't worry about bringing anything" translates to "bring something or I'll publicly crucify you like a passive-aggressive Roman emperor with a Pinterest account."
One of my close friends hosted a dinner at her place last weekend. She called it a "potluck" and sent a group text saying we should each bring a little something, drinks, snacks, whatever. It wasn't anything fancy, just casual. I asked her what I should bring and mentioned I'd be coming straight from work and might be a little rushed. She replied that I didn't need to worry about it, she had plenty of food and just wanted me to come.
So I didn't bring anything. I showed up, said hi to everyone, and honestly, the night was going fine. People brought stuff, a salad, some cupcakes, a couple bottles of wine. I was planning to just help clean up or do dishes since I didn't bring anything, and I figured she meant what she said.
But later on, while people were complimenting the food, she made this offhand comment like, "Well, not everyone contributed... but we're still glad she showed up." Everyone laughed, and it didn't seem super serious, but I felt my face get hot. I didn't know how to respond.
I stayed polite and tried not to act weird about it, but I felt uncomfortable the rest of the night. On the way home, I kept thinking about it. I get that maybe she was a little annoyed, but she literally told me not to bring anything. And now I feel like she put me on blast in front of people for something I didn't even do wrong.
I haven't said anything to her yet because it feels small and I don't want to be dramatic, but I also can't shake the feeling that it wasn't fair.
Am I the Asshole?
The Meaningless Abyss of Social Contracts
Let's dissect this grotesque specimen of human interaction like a frog in sophomore biology class. Your friend—and I use that term with all the sincerity of a politician's campaign promise—explicitly told you not to bring anything. Words were exchanged. A social contract was formed. Yet in the grand theater of human self-deception, these words were merely props in a performance where the script remains forever hidden.
You see, potlucks are just another arena where humans play out their desperate need for reciprocity—a fucking ritual as old as time itself. Like peacocks displaying their colorful feathers, Karen displays her homemade quinoa salad while Brad brings his microbrewed IPA that tastes like fermented armpit sweat. It's all meaningless posturing in a universe that will eventually collapse into heat death. But god forbid you show up empty-handed because some primate part of our brain equates food-sharing with tribal acceptance.
When your "friend" made that passive-aggressive comment—"not everyone contributed"—she might as well have pointed at you and shouted "UNCLEAN!" like you're a fucking leper in medieval Europe. The laughter that followed wasn't just awkward; it was the sound of your social value being shredded like classified documents in a corrupt politician's office.
And what's truly fucked up about this whole charade? If you had brought something despite her instructions, she probably would've said, "Oh, you didn't have to do that!" with the same sincerity as a cat pretending it's sorry for knocking over your grandmother's ashes.
The Hollow Echo of Righteousness
Here's the cosmically disturbing truth that most people are too frightened to acknowledge: none of this matters. Not the potluck. Not the passive-aggressive comment. Not the burning sensation of humiliation crawling up your neck like fire ants on a sugar high.
In fifty years, everyone at that dinner will be either dead or too senile to remember whether you brought fucking deviled eggs or not. In a thousand years, the concept of potlucks might be as foreign as bloodletting is to us now. In a million years, human civilization as we know it might be nothing but fossilized plastic containers and Nokia phones buried under layers of sediment.
Yet here you are, lying awake at night, replaying this moment like it's the Zapruder film of your social life. The monsters aren't under your bed—they're sending group texts about dinner parties with contradictory expectations, wearing human skin suits and practicing their disappointed sighs in front of bathroom mirrors.
You're not the asshole. She's not the asshole. The asshole is the cosmic void that forces us to create meaning through these elaborate social rituals, only to reveal their fundamental absurdity at the most inconvenient moments.
Summary for Braindead Social Primates
Friend: "Don't bring anything!" 🙂
Also friend: "This empty-handed bitch didn't contribute!" 🙄
You: internal screaming 😱
Reality: It's all a meaningless game where the rules change without notice and everyone pretends they knew all along. 💩 Either bring something next time or get better friends—preferably ones who don't communicate in fucking riddles. 🤷♀️
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