The Number One Deadly Sin
Apparently is moving in together. And no, I do not mean this in the overly religious sense or where it applies to the opposite sex. I mean it where it applies to best friends.
Imagine: you and your best friend are the inseperable kind. The kind that, no matter how much time passes on opposite sides of the very Earth, no matter how great the rift; you always know the other is there so long as you can call them. You know that everything will work out as long as they're in the world, and you are happy just to talk about them to anyone to listen. Essentially, you're an old couple minus the couple factor. You're just like old people minus the old.
And then one day, you decide that you should finally live the dream: get an apartment together in the city that you love. Stock up on vinyl and ramen and live within walking distance of, well, walkable distance.
Fast forward about six months. Well, about two would have done it, but six is about the point where you almost can't take it anymore. You both work, seemingly incessantly, to make rent. You started not going out together because it conserved money, but now any day of the week is a club night, but you're more likely to be invited by her new best friend than by your roommate. When superlatives come out, two people have been voted 'Most Likely To Be Friends Forever' and you have been voted 'Most Likely To Overdose on Sushi'. Talking about this ever-present ache is barred by a tangible wall - the kind you can't see, but are terrified of. So you make yourself availible every time she ventures out into the kitchen. You're there. You just have to show her you're there. But nothing ever happens. You see yourself as the recipient of the same small-talk you would get from her in the store, as a talkative stranger. She loves those. But with you it gets cordial: the warmth of friendship and love is never under those words anymore, and you leave feeling emptier than anyone has ever made you feel. ANYONE.
The moral of the story: Who the hell am I to tell you? I have to go to work.
Imagine: you and your best friend are the inseperable kind. The kind that, no matter how much time passes on opposite sides of the very Earth, no matter how great the rift; you always know the other is there so long as you can call them. You know that everything will work out as long as they're in the world, and you are happy just to talk about them to anyone to listen. Essentially, you're an old couple minus the couple factor. You're just like old people minus the old.
And then one day, you decide that you should finally live the dream: get an apartment together in the city that you love. Stock up on vinyl and ramen and live within walking distance of, well, walkable distance.
Fast forward about six months. Well, about two would have done it, but six is about the point where you almost can't take it anymore. You both work, seemingly incessantly, to make rent. You started not going out together because it conserved money, but now any day of the week is a club night, but you're more likely to be invited by her new best friend than by your roommate. When superlatives come out, two people have been voted 'Most Likely To Be Friends Forever' and you have been voted 'Most Likely To Overdose on Sushi'. Talking about this ever-present ache is barred by a tangible wall - the kind you can't see, but are terrified of. So you make yourself availible every time she ventures out into the kitchen. You're there. You just have to show her you're there. But nothing ever happens. You see yourself as the recipient of the same small-talk you would get from her in the store, as a talkative stranger. She loves those. But with you it gets cordial: the warmth of friendship and love is never under those words anymore, and you leave feeling emptier than anyone has ever made you feel. ANYONE.
The moral of the story: Who the hell am I to tell you? I have to go to work.