Friday, Jun. 02, 2006
11:37 p.m.
<< [ A Letter to my Best Friend ] >>
I went for a drive tonight. It was mediocre at best, and a solid ten minutes of it was pretty much me losing my keys and searching my bag for them next to the street, which wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't been dressed like a prostitute or the street had not been so busy.
But hindsight is always 20/20, right? Right.
I started this with some sort of reason, but I don't even know how to get there anymore. It was going to be some story, something that happened to be tonight, then a tie-in, then a letter about how fucking scared I am of losing you, but I can't think. There are too many things I want to talk about, I keep getting distracted, I want to say, "Hey, remember that time at her house when we made you cake?" or "Remember when we went driving at one in the morning and the cops stopped us?" or "Sometimes just looking at you makes me so happy I feel like everything inside me that's capable of feeling anything is going to explode". But you don't want to hear any of that. I want to say, "I'm sorry for whatever it is I did on Thursday to make you want to hurt me like you did".
I don't even know if you're reading this right now. Probably not. I called this afternoon only to have you hang up on me, and then I called a few hours later, and then a few hours after that only to have your mother tell me you are asleep. Whether that was fiction or fact I guess I'll never know. So what I'm going to say is something more like this: high school ends in less than two weeks and I'm fucking scared. Sometimes I think the only reason we are even friends at all is because we have a class together. I wonder if you'd talk to me if we didn't. Or if I stopped being the first to apologize, if our friendship would mean enough to you for you to make the first move. I wonder if we'll stop talking over the summer, or when school begins again in the fall. If you'll care enough to maintain contact. Most of the time I'm pretty sure the answer is no. Right now is definitely one of those times.
I don't know. I don't want things to change. I don't want to think that we'll never stay up talking until we're too tired to form coherent sentences anymore. I don't want to think that we'll never get to argue about morality again, that you'll never call me "kiddo" and I'll never get to act all indignant.
I'm rambling again and I'm not even sure why. Most of the time, I accept that I don't mean a whole hell of a lot to you. I just, I don't know. What am I at, four, five paragraphs now? Not like it really matters, fuck, I don't even know if you check your email anymore, let alone this one. I don't know what the point is anymore either. Of this, I mean. Nothing is going to change, not for the better, anyway. So I guess I'll wrap it up here. I love you, and that is why almost everything you do hurts me. That's why I take your criticism to heart, that's why I cry when you call me fat or stupid or ugly or any of the other insults you are fond of. That's why on Thursday, what you said hurt so much. Not because the subject itself hurt, but because you said it for the sole purpose of causing me pain. Pretty much everything you do hurts me just because I love you. And that's entirely my fault, not yours.
Maybe I owe you an apology after all.
Sorry.
-Amanda