Dear “Best Friend”,
It is funny how you and I became friends. You were quiet. On that first day anyway. You thought, to quote you, that I was a “young Paris Hilton”. I spent that whole weekend out in someone else’s room or partying up a storm. You said I shopped every other day. You knew this because you stalked me. Well sort of. Also because I went to a store bought an item of clothing that couldn’t fit me (I never try on clothes in stores) and gave it to you. Funny first year you were. You said you’d stay up just waiting to hear me come into my room late at night and when you saw me the next afternoon in last night’s clothes you knew. You knew. I was in someone else’s bed that night and the night before.
I like hearing your side of the story of how we met. What you thought of me. Mostly because it’s funny. And because you never really saw the sadness in me. Which is a good thing. Why put on a façade when people can see through it?
But that’s not how our story begins. Ours is a story of a jacket. That first weekend I borrowed a jacket from you. Because it was cold outside. My warm things were still box roomed. I couldn’t bring myself to unpack. I looked outside my door and there was a first year right opposite my room. I didn’t know then that you were a first year but your eyes sold you out. They danced around in their sockets looking to absorb everything in its way. I thought you did not know how to spell your name. Who spells “Lisa” with a double “s”? Later on in our friendship we joked about it and we came to the conclusion that your mother was too excited to be having you she put a double “s”. I like your name. Mostly because you say I’m the only one who can pronounce it right. But also because it’s pretty. Like you.
This is our second year of being good friends. We haven’t fought. Not yet anyway. I am curious as to how our first fight will turn out. Rather than fists and blows, or words and raised voices, I foresee silence. Lots of it. A lack of sound that we may choose to laugh at should we make up. Or something that will serve as a reminder of why we never made up.
This is our second year of being good friends. Being one of the few if not the only people we can trust in a place full of fake niggers and trill bitches. I do not know what that means but it felt right writing it. We’ve seen girls we knew equate love with abuse. Equate love with fear. And they never leave. They stay and make themselves at home with men who’ve made themselves at home in other women. I hope we learn from their mistakes. I hope we learn. I hope we love like we mean it. I hope we love like wise men and foolish women. The feminist in me fought that last sentence.
Keep being you. Keep being funny and annoying and cute. Keep making your eyes big to get your way, we may need free drinks someday. Keep being stubborn and teasing me about the wrong choices I make…like Coco *smiles*. Keep being right and giving me advice that I will reject only to find out you were right. Keep being a friend.