Now it’s been four months since I’ve spoken to my best friend over a silly matter that shouldn’t have created a serious rift to begin with. It’s a ‘Facebook’ concern. And it probably has the global seriousness of any day-to-day, 12-year old mean girl headache. But at this age we’re older and crankier girls I guess.
Still, I’m terribly lonely minus a wing man or a good man, so to speak. At this age it’s very challenging to meet new people let alone create new, trusted relationships. My dad once asked me if I had “one good friend.” At the time I thought it an odd topic of conversation since our communication was often ‘hello’ and ‘here’s your mother.’ He elaborated one day that all anyone needs in this world is ‘one good friend.’ Now I get his lesson.
It sucks to be so
right proud and bull-headed. And don’t go all ‘…pick up the phone, bitch’ on me cuz that volley of concern from well-meaning acquaintances has already been brought to the floor for a vote, floundered in debate with a bottle of mid-range chardonnay, and failed miserably. I am just too goddamn stubborn. And a bit flummoxed too as to how we wound up in this shit swirl scenario. I mean, a ‘best friend’ is supposed to roll with one’s bullshit, right?
Shit. Fuck. Now I’m going to die alone and have a shitty memorial service because ‘he’ was the only person who knew my true, pitch-perfect last wishes. And where the dildo is. And while I’m laid out in some shit hole chapel the beautiful neoclassic urn in my living room that should be filled with hundreds of pinky peach madame delbard roses will mourn alone waiting for a garage sale tag.