"do you think you guys will be friends again sometime?"
disclaimer: people have been asking me this over a long period of time now, and this is something i simply needed to get off my chest.
simple answer: no.
sure, she apologized for “everything”, but i’m not sure if she knew that “everything” didn’t simply mean not having a friend to rely on for most of senior year (and isn’t that what your fucking boyfriend is for anyway?), but it meant also hacking the one strongest bond of trust i had in human beings as well as destroying my self-esteem (at this point irreparably, it seems).
yes, my self-esteem can only be determined by myself and i just need to look at myself in a better light and blahblahblah.
but that’s really hard to do when a guy screws you over to get to your best friend and she decides to reward that noble act by saying she loves him. to add to this guy’s outstanding character, he’s a lowlife douchebag of an alcoholic chain-smoker who makes derogatory racial and sexist remarks, doesn’t have anything incredibly insightful to say, and, last i heard, isn’t doing anything with his life.
but, you know what, she picked him. yeah, whatever, he used her idiot best friend as a doormat and he’s not exactly a great person, but clearly he’s better than that doormat.
basically, her deciding to be with him makes me feel. fucking. worthless.
and i just don’t want to hang out with people who make me feel worthless, okay?
the closest i came to crying was probably when i heard mr. beck call your name before your goofy face came out from behind all those black robes, grinning from ear to ear and, of course, wearing those sunglasses you were clearly told not to wear.
i swell when i think of what you are today compared to a few months ago.
“There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. … No artist is pleased. [There is] no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.”—Martha Graham
I learned the truth at seventeen
That love was meant for beauty queens
And high school girls with clear skinned smiles
Who married young and then retired
The valentines I never knew
The Friday night charades of youth
Were spent on one more beautiful
At seventeen I learned the truth
And those of us with ravaged faces
Lacking in the social graces
Desperately remained at home
Inventing lovers on the phone
Who called to say “come dance with me”
And murmured vague obscenities
It isn’t all it seems at seventeen
A brown eyed girl in hand me downs
Whose name I never could pronounce
Said: “Pity please the ones who serve
They only get what they deserve”
The rich relationed hometown queen
Marries into what she needs
With a guarantee of company
And haven for the elderly
So remember those who win the game
Lose the love they sought to gain
In debitures of quality and dubious integrity
Their small-town eyes will gape at you
In dull surprise when payment due
Exceeds accounts received at seventeen
To those of us who knew the pain
Of valentines that never came
And those whose names were never called
When choosing sides for basketball
It was long ago and far away
the world was younger than today
when dreams were all they gave for free
to ugly duckling girls like me
We all play the game, and when we dare
We cheat ourselves at solitaire
Inventing lovers on the phone
Repenting other lives unknown
That call and say: “Come on, dance with me”
And murmur vague obscenities
At ugly girls like me, at seventeen