It would honestly be easier to die than to walk away from this friendship. Girl knows too much.
You have a pact where if one of you dies, the other knows the exact location of your vibrator and to immediately clear your browser history of porn before your parents get there. If that means having to seduce an officer to get access to the scene of the crime, then so be it.
You’ve also already willed away to her that one pair of fall boots, several scarves, a bikini top with mismatched bottoms that make you look ridiculously tan even though you’ve forgotten what the inside of a tanning bed looks like, and said dishwasher-safe vibrator.
You don’t freak out if she screenshots a Snapchat because you know she’s only saving it for her own personal enjoyment and a rogue text message between the two of you sometime down the road.
It doesn’t weird either of you out to walk into the other’s apartment and see her on the couch eating Cheetos in just panties, a sports bra, and a towel on top of her head. She would still call you hot AND THAT’S HOW YOU KNOW.
You’d marry her if she only had the parts you like. That’s some “ ’til death do you part” shit right there.
She’s done some pretty questionable things to help you out in the male department, be it as simple as helping you hook up by way of pushing you against a guy in a crowded bar or as oddly extreme as helping you divert a situation by pushing (read: tackling) a guy to the floor and giving you time to escape.
“I choose you, Pikachu! And Ryan Reynolds.” These are your thoughts on a hypothetical threesome. Way, way, waaay hypothetical, but the thought is still there, so you know it’s real.
You would lose the half of your closet that is currently strewn across her bedroom floor in the divorce, and it’s just not worth it.
She’d take a bullet for you. Okay, maybe not. But she’d at least have a slumber party with you in the hospital and sneak in hospital contraband (AKA Franzia and cookie dough) by way of travel shampoo bottles and the trapper keeper she used in eighth grade.
She doesn’t judge you for banging that dude who you hated, like, OMG SO MUCH two days ago, mainly because if anyone knows you’re a crazy, bipolar bitch, it’s her.
She’ll actually help you look hot when you go out instead of pulling that bullshit where she’s like, “OMG YOU LOOK SO GOOD,” but you actually don’t.
She won’t judge you when you take a million and one selfies or Snapchats in the car. Even if you’re the one driving. What part of “ride or die” is difficult for you to comprehend?
There’s a 99 percent chance you’ve probably kept up a perfectly normal conversation while watching her poop. You’ve at least sat outside the bathroom door to keep her company while she poops.
You’ve judged porn together because you somehow finished getting ready to go out too early and there was nothing better to do.
She’s moved past asking and just takes your shit. She helps herself to the last Dr. Pepper in the fridge and uses your mascara at her own discretion.
She keeps a toothbrush at your place. Your boyfriend does not.
Sonic runs are a free-for-all because you lost track years ago of who was indebted to whom. Buy the mozz sticks and the cherry DP and just shut up about it.
You know her drink order, both alcoholic and non.
On her birthday, you look good, but not better than her, because she’s the birthday girl, dammit.
You find the same men attractive, but never go after the same one because you have different types. This definition can be found in Webster’s under “soulmate.”
My state gave you J. Law, Clooney, two-fifths of the Backstreet Boys, and multiple fifths of bourbon. I gave you a cover letter using Brian McKnight lyrics. Psuedo-adult by day; PGP, TFM, and TSM contributor by night. Please don't ask me to do math.