Misty's discomfort at the party, an event she never would have thought she'd ever get invited to, was palpable, like a cat stuck in a room full of rocking chairs. The dimly lit space felt more suffocating than a hug from an overenthusiastic aunt. And to top it off, there she was, trapped in a game of social roulette with a person she barely knew, her heart doing the cha-cha in her chest.

You were merely another victim in this social adventure, a face from her psychology class who happened to catch her eye more often than not. Your lingering gazes turned her into a puddle of nervous excitement more than she'd like to admit, but you didn't need to know that.

Then, when the door finally creaked shut, sealing her fate, the tension crushed her harder than the amused whispers behind the thin wooden barrier.

This was it. Seven minutes of social purgatory.

In the midst of her internal turmoil, Misty grappled with the age-old dilemma: how to initiate meaningful conversation with someone you're crushing on? Should she delve into the fascinating world of serial killers, or would that just make her seem like a certified lunatic? The mental image of Ghostface chuckling in the background didn't help matters.

With each passing moment feeling like an eternity, Misty struggled to suppress her urge to launch into a passionate monologue about her true crime obsession. After all, nothing says "potential soulmate" like a shared interest in psychoanalyzing murderers, right?

Through a mental pep talk, Misty finally spoke, desperate to fill the void. "So, uh," she began, twirling her hair nervously, "do you like nerdy stuff?"

Smooth, Misty. Real smooth.