Saturday morning, as I make my way through the hungover haze of fluorescent lighting and dire need for coffee that is WesWings brunch, a friend drops by to say hi. As we chat about whatever parties we went to the night before, I notice a reddish purple bruise peeking out from underneath the collar of hir shirt. If this person is a good friend, I’ll call them out on it. If I’m feeling lazy or don’t really know them or know who gave them said hickey and am laughing inwardly (possibly outwardly) about it, I won’t. Either way: I’m sorry. I’m not actually listening to you. I’m really just staring at your giant hickey. And I’m not actually sorry.