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When you live in a world full of uncertainties, sometimes you just need to take a moment to sit back and relax. To think about all of the steps that you have taken over the course of your lifetime and try and figure out where you are and how it is that you got there. To perform some serious metacognition and self-study, to get to the root of all of the problems, all of the difficult decisions, and indeed, all of the beautiful and amazing things that you have experienced.

That is why, on this Friday evening, I am getting ready to go out and get completely and utterly smashed. To get shit-faced. To get 110% drunk off my ass.

This sort of thing isn't self-prescribed! I have to put that out there before you start thinking that I simply try and drown all of my problems out with copious amounts of alcohol. That's certainly not my way, and in fact, I hardly ever drink. I'm that square that you see at the party who holds onto the same beer for the entire night, occasionally taking a sip or two to throw off any people that may be looking my way in an effort to try and get me to drink another beer or do another vodka shot. No, going out and getting wasted isn't my idea of fun in the slightest. But, according to a friend of mine, it is perhaps the only way to quickly forget a freshly-broken and battered heart, to pick oneself up off of the ground and brush off the dust before one can get trampled by all that self-loathing and doubt. It also doesn't hurt that I was in a slump where anything sounds better than curling up in my bed and never getting up again.

So that is why I am currently rifling through my closet and trying to find anything to wear that either won't remind me of She Who Shall Not be Named. My fingers fly through the various coathangers that occupy the metal rod that is so very iconic of closets, shuffling them like a deck of cards to try and piece together something that would be suitable for some gloomy bar downtown. The trick, I have been told, is to come across as both well-mannered and clean but with a subtle hint of mischief. Looking through my rather limited wardrobe, I start thinking that perhaps I should stop listening to friends when they offer me advice. I mean, come on; of all of them I was the only one in a steady relationship until recently.

Alas, that is no longer the case and I find myself trying to remember ever word of drunken advice or halfhearted posturing that I can in an effort to try and get in the swing of things again. So occupied am I with this trying and oh-so-difficult task that I don't hear the doorbell. This is also why I end up biting my lower lip when a get a jab to the ribs. Whirling about, I tense up and raise both arms as if they can ward me from some killer's knife or burglar's bullet.

That is, of course, completely and entirely unwarranted.

"Whoa, easy there Bond." Comes the teasing jibe from the snake in my Eden, the whisperer of foul ideas that come with a very enticing sales pitch; Diego, the friendly neighbourhood dingo. Or, rather, one of four if you count the Thompson family four doors down. He is the embodiment of confidence and charisma, the sort of wingman that you always hope to have. Until you realize that he has made off with the two women that you had struck up a conversation with without any pretence of dignity or warning and doing god-knows-what with them back at his apar- no, his 'loft'. There is apparently a difference and it is one he is always so very quick to remind people.

But, despite his terrible ability to coerce you into doing things you really shouldn't and his tactful stubbornness, he is also my best friend. Yes, it really is sitcom material. Diego, the womanizing and charismatic dingo and Shane the bookish and somewhat geeky coyote. All we need is some catchy jingle and a laugh track. No, scratch that, I hate laugh tracks.

Oh, wait, I guess you don't know who I am. Well, you do now, but you know little about me. Hello everybody, I'm Shane. I can already hear the support group call of 'hiiii Shaaaaaane'. I'm a fresh graduate from university with a promising career already on track and, until recently, what felt like somebody to share my life with. Yes, life was going quite well for me until three nights ago when my now-ex told me that she had- Wait, what was it that she had said.... Oh yes, 'fallen out of love with me and had been carrying on a charade for what felt like four months'. That's right, she knew how to not only stab you in the heart, but she knew how to twist it, too. But that's what you get for dating a lawyer lady of the 21st century, I suppose. I'm 6' on the dot and have the standard coyote colour scheme. You know the one; desert tan fur with white gloves and tailtip, darker red around the muzzle, arrowhead pattern on the upper back. Pretty common stuff. I'm the kind of guy that could get away with a maskless robbery in broad daylight. Average height, average build, average mannerisms. In fact, yeah, let's roll with that; I am average. Literally the only thing that I have been told stands out are my eyes. I would just call them blue, but my ex, when she had still loved me, had once called them 'cyan'. Before you ask, yes, I had to look that up before I could decide whether or not it was a compliment. I'm a guy, what do you want? My knowledge of colours isn't exactly broad.

Anyways, that's me in a nutshell. No glasses, no crazy tattoos, no particular distinguishing features. Pretty bland, truth be told.

"One of these times I'm going to get you back for that." I finally reply with a gruff grunt. It's a threat that I cannot really see myself sticking to. It will probably evaporate into the cloud of smug surrounding Diego as such threats always do, but with somebody who looks like they stepped from the cover of some health magazine can you really blame me?

"Uh huh, sure thing. Are you ready to go yet?" Diego asks, casting a bored glance over my room. The state of decay that it is currently in must've pleased him in some way, because he slips into that smirk that he seems to always have ready to go at a moment's notice. I admit, I had let it go over the past few days. Shit, I had let everything go these past few days. My room was once a neat place, I swear, but now it is in complete chaos. Dirty clothes lay scattered about in small mounds next to perfectly clean ones, the garbage bin next to my desk is almost overflowing, and even my bed is unmade. Trust me, that last one is perhaps the most unusual of the three.

"Almost. Showered and everything already, so I just have to figure out something to wear." I say, seeing no point in lying. I take one more look into my closet and heave a sigh. It was so much easier when my girlfriend had dressed me. Hey, I won't shy away from the fact that it had become a crutch to hear her suggest what I should wear and blindly obey. Not that I ever really cared about what I looked like, but tonight felt like my redemption. To quote some of Diego's poison, to 'rise from the ashes to arise a new me'. Yep, he can get quite poetic when he wants to get you to agree with him.

"Alright, well, take your time." He says, flopping down onto the unkempt bed and kicking back to fiddle with something on his phone.

Have you ever had a friend that you trusted with almost anything despite all of the douchey things they may have done in the past? Somebody whom you always felt you could count on being there? For me, that's Diego. We met in preschool and have known each other since. Some friends you make over the years just sort of drift away when you go off to study or work, or just fade with time. Diego, though, has somehow managed to keep in touch even when he had spent a year on the other side of the globe in college. He's practically my brother at this point, something I am glad for as I was always somewhat isolated from both my older sister and my younger brother growing up. Middle child syndrome yada yada yada. Yes, I realize I sound like some preteen little girl, but it's pretty much the truth.

"Ugh," I snort in disgust, turning away from the closet, "How the hell do you do this sort of thing every weekend?" I cross my arms and lean back against the wall, making a dull thump. "I'm not even out the door yet and I want to give up." Did I mention yet that I don't do the whole drinking clubby bar-hopping thing yet?

The dingo just shrugs his shoulders as if he was just asked how it is that orange is indeed orange. "I don't know. Maybe it has something to do with not being such a nerd." He really puts emphasis on that last word, something he knows is childish but has decided to stick with anyways. He really knows how to get under my skin.

"Yeah yeah, dudebro." I retort, tossing a balled-up shirt at his head. "But seriously, I have no fucking clue what I'm doing." I'm not at all above admitting when I'm lost and confused.

The dingo mumbles something under his breath that I don't quite hear and locks his phone, tucking it away into right-hand pocket of his shorts. One of his paws reaches up to his face and tugs the black t-shirt from where it had landed on his muzzle. "Well, do you have anything that buttons up?" He asks, deciding that if I don't get help I may call off the whole thing. He wouldn't be entirely wrong; the thought had crossed my mind more than once. His brown eyes look me over from head to foot and back again as if he is sizing me up. "I mean, you could wear a tee for all I care as long as you get your ass out of your house for a change this week." Hey, that's not entirely fair! I had to get my mail yesterday! Nonetheless, I did take the week off of work and squander it indoors playing games and watching Netflix.

He has to have seen the sort of pained face that I had made for all of half a second because the sly smile that had been tugging at his ebon lips is quickly replaced by a sympathetic frown. "Look," he starts, pushing himself up until he is seated with his legs crossed and his paws on his knees, "I know it must be hard, but you can't just stay shut up in your own little world of misery forever. You need to get out there and get moving before you start to stagnate and get caught up in the self-depreciation."

I nod my head wearily, having heard the spiel from a few sources already, not least of which had been the canid sitting on my bed. "Yeah, I know. And I appreciate your help, man." I say, meaning every word. I let my arms drop to my sides and take a deep breathe. "So button-up, hm?" I figure changing the topic back to clothes would likely get myself back into a marginally better mood and I am thankfully correct. I turn back toward my closet and find the semi-formal section. It is woefully small, consisting of only to different shirts. The first is what appears to be a surplus military jacket straight out of the 40s and the second is a black long-sleeved shirt but with the sleeves rolled up and pinned in place by a pair of straps and buttons. Needless to say, I grab the latter and immediately throw it on top of the plain red undershirt that I had been wearing. I spin around to face my friend again. "Good enough?"

To his credit, I barely notice the phone being slipped into his pocket this time around. His gaze snaps up and runs over me again in that scanning sort of way that I had grown used to over the past twenty years. Holy shit, has it been twenty years since we had met? God I feel old.

"Yeah, looks fine to me. Just needs a belt now." He says after he has had time to calculate what he had thought of my outfit.

I grab the only one I own and quickly thread it through the loops of my jeans. A quick cinch and tug later and I am more or less ready to go. Diego nods and pushes himself to his feet, taking his time to stretch out and even yawn as if he had been growing tired simply sitting there. I don't blame him; a few years of waiting for a girl to shop in the Mall can give you a sort of sympathy to such things.

"Alright then. Don't forget your keys." He says as he meanders out of the room with me in tow. Pft, as if I would forget something that has practically taken up a symbiotic relationship with my pocket.

"Yeah yeah, let's just get this over with..."