I used to be friends with a girl named Megan and with her and two others, we became as cliquey as possible and given that we all lived within .03 miles of each other, it was a certain that we would spend hours and hours together. We were practically inseparable and weekends involved sleepovers and Seagram’s wine coolers and my phone had to be surgically removed from my face every evening after two hours of discussing Megan’s recent sexploits with her lanky, clod of a boyfriend, Chuck. Let’s just say we had countless conversations about the art of fellatio. They were even doing it behind the bowling alley at midnight bowling, which reminds me that I should thank my mother for denying me the God given right to bowl after 12 AM.
One weekend, a few weeks before my 16th birthday, we had a falling out over something innocuous that ended up with her yelling at me outside of the Macy’s in Colonie Center. This after I spent $3.84 on a nail polish from the GAP to give to her so that she would take me back as a friend. Because to me, giving people things was the only way I knew how to make them like me. If I keep reading over that last sentence, my head aches with knowing the way I wanted, nay, needed to please people to make them want me as a friend because I had apparently fallen. Hard. And hit my head on the corner of some table and punctured my skull, and that is how I ended up brainless and an idiot.
The fight, at the time, left me bitter and resentful. Which manifested itself into a behavior, wherein I went out of my way to get Sarah and Lauren, the other two in our little gaggle, to see my ‘side’ and they did. We had established that Megan was an evil whore with 666 tattooed on her left butt cheek, which is why she was so damn difficult and prone to throwing things (in public) and punching walls.
In the next week the fellatio giving Megan, ended up with mono and was guaranteed to be out for weeks. One would think that a debilitating illness would keep that whore at bay, but alas not and in her infinite wisdom and realization that I had gotten her friends against her, she called and cursed me out and politely requested that I drop dead and get herpes. I thanked her and told her that I hoped her Chlamydia cleared up soon as well as those carpet burns on her knees from being on them so much giving head and then hung up and went to pack.
I was packing for my 16th birthday trip to Chicago. It was fate that my aunt had been trying for years to get tickets to Oprah and when she finally got through to the operators they offered her three dates, one of which was my 16th birthday, the magic age at which one is allowed to be in the studio audience. So off we were going to see Oprah and so that my already fat ass could enjoy such luxuries as Cheesecake Factory and Giordano’s deep-dish meat filled, artery-clogging pizza. I’d point out the wonder that was being at Oprah, but alas we did not get a free car and I didn’t get free hair care products or a sample from Emeril’s new cookbook or even a chance to lick her and ask what it’s really like to be a multi-millionaire, as she wasn’t yet a billionaire. Though I did get to shake her hand and I haven’t washed my right hand since October 26, 1999.
The show topic was about “Friendshifts”: The inevitable loss and addition of friends as we get older and come into our own. It’s just something that happens that isn’t necessarily out of malice and is due to more than a nail polish being thrown and shattered on the sidewalk. As it happens, over the years, I’ve tried my damndest to maintain most friendships. I’m still friends with my best friend from Kindergarten as well as my best friend from Girl Scout Camp. Though over the years I’ve gained and lost many friends but never because I didn’t try or so I don’t think Those fostered are important to me, though I’m nowhere near a fantastic friend and infallible. Trust me, I’m actually prone to passive aggressive behavior and I yell and sometimes I’ll eat your pizza when your back is turned. But if anything I try to be loyal. I don’t want people remembering my awful behavior seven years earlier, with hurt and disdain. I wouldn’t want people that I’m no longer friends with to thank God that I’m no longer in their lives as I do with Megan. I don’t want anyone wishing that I forget to get a tetanus shot and then drunkenly puncture my arm on a rusty nail.
In the end I haven’t a clue as to what happened to Megan, except that she returned to school and wanted to be friends again and then started taking Metabolife at the suggestion of her mother. She sent me a message via Facebook, which I promptly deleted and though I should be over her discretions, I obviously am not. And thinking of it now, that probably makes me as person, even worse. For if I can’t get over shit from seven years prior than I couldn’t possibly expect for my friends to get over my eternally pissy and bitchy ways. But thankfully, they are far better than I and considerably more forgiving. They also don’t require trinkets and gifts as a sign of my undying devotion. And as far as I know, none of them have punched a wall or thrown a glass at my head during a fight. And let’s pray that they don’t think Seagram’s winterberry wine coolers are a ‘classy’ drink.