If you flirt with the guy your friend has a crush on, especially if you do it right in front of her and especially if you’re already taken, you’re a major bitch.
Animus are a part of my psyche
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Le mow
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In the months preceding your move here I was so sad — a different kind of sad than I feel now. I was on a much lower level of self worth than I am today. That is, I hated myself much more than I do now. I was friendless. My mom picked me up for lunch every single day until I got a car and then I drove myself home thereafter. When I first saw you I told myself I would be nice to you because I remembered how scary being the new kid was. We had English together. I remember looking over at you and noticing how tiny your legs were.
It took you a little while to get a hold on this new school, but you did. I had been here almost six years and I still hadn’t. By the time we started our junior year you were no longer the one that needed coaxing out of her shell; it was me. You bloomed. In just a matter of a few months you had gotten two boyfriends — one of which you’re still with today, hope you’ve had a lovely Valentine’s Day — and more friends than I ever had. I have no idea why, but you held on to me. You must have liked something about me, I guess. I still went home everyday for lunch, but at least I had someone to walk down the halls with and talk to at football games. I was very grateful for you. You were my friend when I needed one.
But you turned out to be so much more than that. It takes a special kind of person to stick with someone like me — so stubbornly cynical and unsociable and introverted on such a painstakingly frustrating level, someone who stumbles in social situations and falls flat on her face, someone who is so painfully awkward and so weird. Ninety-nine out of a hundred people would not be so diligent about forming a friendship with someone like me. And perhaps you didn’t see my awkwardness and weirdness and shyness as vividly as I do. Maybe you just saw me as a nice girl who talked to you when you first moved here. Nevertheless, you stuck with me. I have no idea if it was pleasant or easy or if you wanted to, but you did.
I perfectly understand that you are a great person. I know it and I believe it and I defend it. In the abundance of shitty teenagers there are in this world, I believe with everything that I am that you have a heart of gold. We will probably be friends for a long, long time, maybe for life. It’s definitely possible, and I would certainly not oppose it. And maybe one day I can tell you about the things that infest my head, at least the important things, if you’ll listen. But right now I don’t feel like you would listen. You are too busy being young and unburdened. And that’s okay. But I just can’t tell such intimate things to someone that doesn’t have the capabilities to listen to them. I’m not saying you wouldn’t sit and hear all my words and pay attention and not interrupt. I’m saying you probably wouldn’t try to understand. You would probably say something trite to try to make me feel better. And even if you did try to understand, you probably wouldn’t be able to.
Please know that I am absolutely not belittling you. I do not blame you for possibly not understanding and I do not look down at you for it.
Truth is, I really don’t understand either.
I guess what I really want to say is: I’m sad. And I’m mad at you for not being sad, too. I know how unfair it is to say this, but it’s true. I want somebody who will get me, who will share in all this hurt. I don’t like being around somebody who is so flamboyantly happy, whose bliss rubs so abrasively against my sorrow. You are the sun and I am the moon, and our collision burns me up and ignites a fury and an anguish within me so powerful that I almost wish I was still that friendless loser from two years ago. I may have been eating lunch alone, but at least I didn’t have to deal with someone whose happiness makes my sadness so vibrant.
If we compared what we have — our achievements, our possessions — we would probably come up even. In fact, I’d go so far as to arrogantly say that the scales would probably be tipped just a tad in my favor. But I don’t care about that. I don’t care that I have a sports car and you don’t even have a car or that you have a boyfriend and I’ve never even been kissed. I don’t care that I’m smarter than you or that you’re skinnier that me. All that matters is that you’re content and confident and I am sad and troubled. I want to be happy like you, but I don’t know how, and I’m angry at you for figuring it out before me.
Sometimes you just make me feel so bad about myself. I hate that you can do that and not understand that you’re doing it.
I lied when I said I didn’t care that you’re skinnier than me. I do care. But I hate that I care and I hate that you care. You flaunt it. I hate how you always call yourself fat and say that you need to lose weight when you know that you don’t. I hate how you’ll say the complete opposite the next day; you can’t donate blood because you’re too thin, your size zero jeans are falling off of you. I hate it when you call my hips and butt gigantic. I hate the way you call me fat, not biting or cruelly, but sugary and cutesy, the way you’d speak to an obese dog: “Come here, girl! Awww, look at how fat you are!!!!”
You probably wouldn’t be able to handle it if I told you about all the tears I’ve cried over my body, all the sleepless nights I’ve spent trembling in my bed, dreading going to school and facing you and everyone else. You wouldn’t be able to handle how I can’t go one fucking minute without thinking about my weight, how when I look in the mirror all my insides squeeze together and I feel like I can’t breathe, how horrified I feel every time my weight is mentioned. If I told you about all the vile things about myself that go through my head, would you still make those comments? I doubt you would.
You do not deserve to be accused of in this way and I’m sorry. It is not your fault that you cannot see my sadness. I’m quite good at hiding it, after all. I’ve done well portraying myself as the mellow, dry, cynical friend that doesn’t have a care in the world. But surely my mask slips every once in awhile and surely if you weren’t preoccupied with all your happiness you’d be able to see it. But I shouldn’t be mad at you for being happy. You can’t help it.
In the end I am just a basketcase. I think too much. And it’s unreasonable for me to expect somebody to be able to open up my head and make sense out of the tangle of short-circuiting wires that lurks within, to be able to navigate a pitch-black labyrinth with me that has no exit.
Just disregard everything I’ve ever said, and everything that I will say. I’m sorry in advance for pushing you away. Just because I’m lost without a compass doesn’t mean you’re obligated to come find me.
I’ll find my way out.
username is hatz09
:)
