Your blogger bestie.

28 October 2014

I miss them. I miss how utterly inadequate but perfectly accepted I felt when I was with them. I miss our understanding adventures, our own wavelength running the Southern rails and our endless mindless telepathy.

I never had close female friends. I always had best friend, singular, often one in a group, a group I was never part of. I'd slink around the outside, not by choice, but by necessity. I didn't fit in with any groups – I'd flit about as best I could, but really my only true friends could be counted on one hand. Then I became part of a three – occasionally a four or five, sitting on a six-seater with our ring binders and railcards at 7:38am. It was unusual and fantastical having two recent contacts remembered atop the list on my shitty Motorola, recipients of texts (recipients, plural) that I sent whenever I thought of them both, whenever something that we'd all appreciate had happened. I thought of them a lot. I cared about them, and they cared about me. They'd been besties since school days, and to be honest I was delighted they'd even considered my application to join the group. I made it, I was in, I was happy. We three. We were tight. Were we but a little younger, we'd have a handshake.
We'd watch trash and make comments, collectively feel better. We made social media. Sang the same songs in the car and stopped off for deep-fried sustenance once every few miles. I burned my petrol money going out of my way and giving lifts because I loved seeing them on the passenger side and bouncing in the middle back seat. I loved it.
I'd listen to the boyfriend troubles and patiently partake, speculating and gesticulating, formulating and at times elaborating or just imagining.
I'd take their words as gospel – I probably still would. Whether it was 'don't cut your hair like that, it suits you longer', 'don't drive that way, we'll get lost', or 'don't have sex with him, he'll just hurt you' – they were always right.
We were so great. Going to clubs to use the toilet, having sleepovers in the living room, catching up between lessons over pasta in the canteen, getting trains to and from our new homes on weekends, taking full-length photos before big birthday parties, sharing sugary pitchers and making pacts.

Now I hate my job, my head always hurts, my heart is stitched together like an ugly cartoon cliché, my heels are hung up – they were only a flighty fancy anyway – and my corkboard never recovered from the massacre, the sudden destruction. Pins stabbed and flew as the memories came down, two years of friendship in tatters littering my bedroom floor.
I also give fewer shits.
And now quite predictably, fulfilling their expectations, I take to the blank page; the welcoming warm embrace of the blog, the orange background and the chance to strikethrough font, like I wish I could in life. Just a little. I might even go back and stop myself posting. Go back and think about what I could have done.
I'd convince myself to keep calling, keep messaging, keep trying, keep hoping.

She asks for help, for tips. I remember the dissing back in the day, the stagnant hatred and silent treatment that led to a big reveal that... Blogging about feelings was immature. It was 'inexcusable'. I can't begin to reply. I mustn't. She might not be aware that she's opened the door. Fair enough, getting back into contact when your ex-friend falls ill. Fair play to you, swallowing whatever resentment you may still hold and cherish, putting it aside to reassure the girl who once was the third. She really appreciated it. She sat in hospital and she stupidly thought it was the start of the old, a new beginning, at last. Maybe, maybe, things could be the way they were.

I could reply and say something scathing or sarcastic. I could reply and be perfectly pleasant and helpful. I could reply and politely decline, explain that I'm not the right person for the job. I could reply in all honesty and say

Hi sweetie! :) how are you? Thanks for the message!
It's so lovely of you to stay in touch, I really appreciate your support and well-wishes in that difficult time, especially since we haven't been that close for a few years.
I'd love to help you out, really I would, but I don't really think my style would work with that particular blog. I'm not that fashionable! Haha. I love that you thought of me, I'm definitely not the best blogger but it is still a pretty big thing to me. Really happy your sis is getting out there and trying blogging, I bet she'll be awesome. I'll make sure I subscribe to her! :)
I'm also not sure I should help, because idk if you remember but however many years ago it was, you stopped being my friend because of something I wrote on my blog – because I was so big on blogging about my feelings when I couldn't express them. I understand where you were coming from back then, I probably could have dealt with things a little better, but tbh blogging was the only thing I could do back then whenever I had strong feelings about something. I was angry, I was upset, I missed my besties, I didn't understand why they weren't speaking to me – so I wrote about it. It made sense at the time. Anyway, I hope you get where I'm coming from. It still hurts now, even after everything that's happened to me lately.
In the past three years I've had my heart broken about twelve times by just two guys, I've been dicked around by a lot of uni friends, I've struggled with work, I've worried I'd fail, I've embarrassed myself when drunk AND sober, I've made too many terrible decisions and I've recently had my head cut open and fixed. But nothing has ever hurt me quite like losing the two of you did.

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