I’ve lived on this planet for 28 years, without one friend to show for it. I’d have better luck on Mars: excavating rocks with the Rover, gossiping about their composition over brunch.
“Don’t bother with shale. It has a reputation for being flakey,” I’d gab, sipping a Mimosa in low gravity.
The Rover would squeak back a “hell ya!”, and give me a high five with its little robotic arm.