When I was in the eighth grade, my weekends generally consisted of marathon sleepovers at one friend's house or another's. We'd spend Friday night eating pizza and verbally dissecting the most recent middle school social drama over the soundtrack of whatever Top 40 garbage the local radio station was playing on an endless loop of the same 5 songs per hour. All of Saturday was then spent either taking up space at that friend's house in my pajamas or aimlessly wandering around with that friend at whatever location her parents had agreed to let us roam: their neighborhood, the mall, or that stretch of downtown that had absolutely nothing to offer a 13-year-old but an endless selection of college t-shirts and a wide array of bars we wouldn't see the inside of for another half a decade or so. Saturday night was then spent doing a rinse-and-repeat of Friday night--just switching either the location (ex: my house vs. theirs) and/or the friend (ex: Katie vs. Katrina). I...