Cluster B

Yeah so, I wish that we were still friends.
Honestly, I find myself saying that more and more to everybody that I used to know who suddenly disappeared. I suspect that in all actuality it wasn’t sudden, slowly but surely if I had been paying attention, they were letting me know that being a part of my life anymore just wasn’t worth the hassle. In a way, I respect people when they shove off. At least I know there is some part of them that either gave up on trying to manipulate the master manipulator, or they just got better and didn’t think codependency was all that they had assumed it was cracked up to be. Nobody loves me for long, and I might not like it, but it’s the way things are. You and I, I don’t know, if you were pretending to be my friend all that time, I must say, that was an Oscar winning performance. You took a lot more shit than I have thrown at most people. I saw your tears and frustrations, I heard you yelling and there isn’t a way that I could have explained that a whole other person was inside me, wishing I hadn’t done whatever it was that I just did that was going to push you away, like everyone else.
I don’t have these problems if I don’t get close to anyone.
The last thing you said to me when you told me we wouldn’t be associating further was that you didn’t want to interrupt my progress with therapy and you wanted me to continue to get better. In my mind, it wasn’t the kindest thing you could do at all, as a matter of fact I didn’t even recognize that is what happened until weeks later. In the moment I was like, ha, I knew it, you were a lying sack of shit loser like everyone else, just like I suspected. And all this love bull shit you claim that you have for me was just an elaborate long con ruse, just like I told you it was. So, cower off, with your tail between your legs, like everyone else because you’re a failure and you failed to win at this game of getting me to believe you and I knew this was going to happen and you have wasted your own time you stupid fucker, not mine, I’m laughing at you, clown.
I wish we were friends, because if we were, and not lovers, we might still be friends.
The 3 friends I claim are people who know me and my moods and my ways and sex is not one of the things that we do together. So, when they correct me, I know they have my best interest at heart and they aren’t admonishing me only so that I can seem more sexually appealing. They really want me to get my head out of my ass or speak up for myself or do better, genuinely. And I care that they care. You made me feel like you cared but I’ll tell you what, somehow, I knew it wasn’t going to last. The moment you transitioned into a lover, our friendship, in my mind became essentially a cover, for you to get to fuck me. And I only knew you 3 hours before you fucked me. And making that cover easy for you, since you lied to get in the door in the first place, was not on my agenda.
But we had good times, together, didn’t we?
I mean we had fun, you were good company, you pretended to listen almost as well as the therapists I must pay. But you see, I did pay you, didn’t I? I paid you with my minutes ticking around the clock and my body and my treating us every time we went somewhere because all your broke ass had to offer was a warm shoulder a smile and some dick. And some sing a longs too where you wanted to be the center of attention and would literally get pissed if the audience came over afterward to say what I great job I did singing, instead of you. That shit is funny as fuck to me now. Don’t take my insults personally, I’m just mad that so many things have happened recently and that they are things where I wouldn’t have to explain the back story because you were there when it all got started and it would be nice to just pick up the phone, tell you to come over so we could have a beer and you listen while I update you. And then afterward you’d try to give me some fortune cookie advice and I’d roll my eyes at how stupid and conventional and corny it was and then I would berate you for an hour or two for trying to fix me when your life is epic fucking shambles, just like old times. Perhaps that’s the reason that if we ever were friends, we aren’t any longer. I didn’t respect you, I couldn’t. I never have. I want to say I’m sorry about that but I can’t. You were just a good listener, mostly because you didn’t know any better. My real 3 friends have fucking boundaries, they simply aren’t going to listen to me bitch and moan over and over again about how much I adore the monster, and I wish he was coming to Cali with me, and how good he tastes and looks and how young and stupid he is and how badly I feel that I have been trying to break up with someone like him for two years and he ain’t even claiming me like that and how something is clearly wrong with me anyway if I gravitate toward him, like having a narcissist for a mother, and stepfather and ex-husband wasn’t enough, I had to go find one that just came to earth and entertain him. They don’t tolerate much of my nonsense, they’ve known me too long and it is a part of the reason I love them. You, you’d be pissed after about 3 minutes of me talking about how good the monster’s kisses are, and you’ve also kissed me. You’d be so angry about me reminiscing about every single part of his body and hair on his head and all his smells and quirks and jackass ways because I used to call you boyfriend and I’ve never called him any sort of such thing. If you hadn’t been a horny piece of shit, we could still be friends and I wouldn’t miss talking to you. And maybe someday, I would have taken your pop psychology acid induced advice but more than likely I would have kept convincing you how stupid you were and how I was right and you would eventually give in, which I loved walking away from.

And who knows, maybe I don’t wish we were still friends. I don’t even know why I think you would still be sulking around my blog reading my posts anymore anyway, but five will get you ten if you aren’t.

I don’t ever want to stop anyone from leaving me if they want to leave. I’ll help them. As sad as it makes me to know that every single person has a point where they simply cannot fuck with me anymore, including my blood relatives, I still wouldn’t beg anyone to stay. So, maybe I just miss having another miserable person to share my misery with. I read somewhere that sociopaths say “so” when they write, a lot.

Feel free to read this again now that you know that.

Wherever you are, take care of yourself. I’m trying to do the same from here.

Sincerely,

Me

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