September 17, 2008
Dear friend,
I am writing to you because you are the only one as rational as I am. Oh, go ahead and try to figure out who this is, because you would not believe me even if I told you myself. It actually should not be that difficult, in all reality. Honest.
Most of the names of people won’t be changed, because they are people you will most likely never meet, and most likely will never want to. It has certainly been hard, having to tolerate the agendas and intentions of the bleak and common, those who crave nothing more than what is in front of them. I just need to know that you want something more. Something bigger, brighter, more—stunning. I just need to know that I’m not the only one.
I think you of all people would understand that because of what you have accomplished, and what you have left in your shadow. At least I hope so, because my intention is greatness, and I would certainly hate for you to miss out on such a promising friendship. Or so I would assume.
So, this is my life. And I want you to know that while I consider myself to be amazing, I hate everything that I am, and I am working very hard to figure that out.
Recently, a very close friend of mine’s boyfriend committed suicide. A four year relationship, torrid, if anything else, that ended with a bang—literally. I could never figure out why it didn’t crumble, though. A domestic dispute two years in, that resulted in thousands of dollars in legal fees and aggravation. Constant fighting that only led to intimate encounters of peace. A drug addiction that left two cars totaled, the gas-light of trust issues beaming like a police siren, and a $40,000 promise for happiness shot-up and snorted away in a mere months time. Love is love, but I never saw it being worth the pain.
I got the call as I was with another close friend, one of the few I kept after various graduation parties. Now, that is an issue I will gloss over for now, but will certainly address soon. Get excited. We were just about to leave her house, when a simple, “Thomas is dead,” changed my plans. “What?” “Yea, he’s dead. He killed himself.” I was not surprised, because he was going to be going to jail in about a month for a parole violation, but the timing was a shock, for things seemed to be getting better.
I hung up the phone, told my friend some ridiculous lie of when to expect me back so as not to blatantly inconvenience her as she had always inconvenienced me, and rushed to a sad scene. I had nothing to say. I don’t comfort well, because I have never expected anyone to comfort me.
The month that followed is now a streak of alcohol, carbohydrates, and feigned sensitivity. While I am quite lucrative—again, glossing for now—it became a bit of a struggle to keep up with the distractions that occupied us. I became a monitor, someone appointed by choice but welcomed by acquaintances to listen to her feelings, wipe her tears, and drive her from one drunken stupor to another. And to think, they all called me a friend.
Lunch out every afternoon, dinner out every night. Days filled with shopping, drinking, smoking, and friends. All I can say is that I am glad I have serious powers of self control, because the thousands I spent were plenty. And for the record: drugs are not my forte. Plain and simple, nothing that inhibits my complete control of a situation. Sure, a pill here and there that may not have my name on it, but I certainly have the receipts. Now, I look back, and there are tears. Only tears. Yet I still can’t bring myself to care.
When I was told he was dead, the only thing that came to mind was relief. He was holding my friend back from her life, and this was her opportunity to move on. I truthfully was not sad at all but merely disappointed that it had to end as it did. Death is no way to deal with a problem. Sure, nothing particularly astounding has come of her liberation, but I guess I just believe in people. Well, no. I don’t believe in people. Not at all, actually. I just hope that people are as strong as I am.
Kiss-Kiss,
Dante
