Bitches (Part II)
You know how there are pieces of furniture, lights or chairs or tables, that you've had in your house for years, since you were born even, but you never really notice them until you grow up? It takes years for you to really look at them, acknowledge them, like them or hate them. That's what you felt like to me. You've been there since I was five, but I didn't really start to get to know you until I was twelve.
There are so many years where I can't say anything about our friendship, and I kind of hate that it's that way. But then I spent a whole year sitting right next to you and it was great. Talk about the best of friends! We would talk about who was better, Britney Spears or Christina Aguleria. We would talk about why vegitarians sucked. We would rant about everything and laugh about everything. Our table would sing Blink-182, Limp Bizkit, you know, the hits of the year. It was great to be able to have a conversation with you every day of school; we were catching up on all the talking we had missed since kindergarten.
But that's not to say that I didn't like making fun of you, along with all the other boys. We called you a lesbian, trying to confirm the fact that you licked carpet. Of course, no one in that class knew what licking carpet was, but we bugged you about it anyway. We singled you out to the point where someone decided to give everyone a sip of his awesome juice pouch except you and your best friend burst out in tears, exclaiming "why don't you just leave her alone?!" I am sorry, I took it too far. Is that why we didn't talk at all the following year?
Summer came and went, and the whole "becoming awesome friends" part kind of faded. All of a sudden it was punk rock: loud, fast music and bracelets up to your elbows. We all preferred seeing each other with our hair long and covering our faces. I thought it was so cool that you had a rip right in the middle of your little boy's t-shirt. You definately had a bad ass attitude going for you. I wish we would've talked more. Is it because we were worn out from all that talking we did the year before?
Things started to change over the summer, the pace started to pick up. I got to hang out with you at camp. You and those other punk girls. It was still a lot of long hair and fast music, not to say that I didn't get my fill of Blink and "pop-punk" on the side, while getting yelled at by you and everyone else, mainly just with "THEY SUCK!" Whatever, man. I listened to the Ramones and The Misfits. And don't act like you didn't know the words to some Boxcar Racer songs. Even the punk girls were knowledgable in that band. We didn't talk an extreme amount, we didn't the year before high school either. But it was okay, because I could still say with confidence that we were friends. I could still see you at a birthday party or during recess and get a laugh out of you. We, our whole group of friends, became really close towards the end of our last year together. Every after school day was a big circle of boys and girls, talking and laughing for at least a half hour before heading home.
When pre-high school summer came and you and your boyfriend, my closest friend, had to break it off, I was scared because I didn't want you two to lose contact. I was scared of what was coming next, seeing that circle of friends break into little sections for the next part of their lives.
And then something happened.
All of a sudden, I'm calling you on the phone and we're talking about all the drama between our friends and I'm just pouring out every little detail about myself, constantly apologizing because I felt you weren't understanding what I was saying. You probably weren't, but you listened anyway. You always listen to me, you know. And the calls got more frequent, even though I didn't see you so much over the summer. Or was it because I didn't see you so much over the summer? And it felt like back in the day, only without the picking on you and calling you words that I don't know the definition of. Everything just got more personal, and I went beyond the surface of who you were. I learned what asexual meant, not in the sense that you reproduce with yourself. I learned what a lot of words meant from you. But of course! You were always reading. . .
When freshmen year came, I wasn't able to sit next to you every morning and sing songs with you. So I had to remind you of the time when we were able to do that, that is whenever I could get a phone call out of you and your busy schedule. I didn't see you too much, but it was great when I did. Our personal conversations mainly took place on the convenient internet. We talked about who I liked and who you didn't, and we talked about ourselves. And in half the conversations we had that year I would ask you why you were so self-conscious, followed with an "I think you're beautiful." I always hoped that it would make you feel good. It made me feel good. By the end of the year I was able to truthfully tell you that I missed you. I didn't really like that much and I hoped the summer would be different. But summer was different, wasn't it?
Twenty or thirty crushes passed through me in a year, but you stuck. I didn't tell you, or did I? Okay, I did. Maybe I didn't explicitly say it, but I'm sure you figured it out. The question was now "do you like me?" My phone started ringing again, and it wasn't even my mom. Your phone started ringing ten times as much. And August before sophomore year ended with a bang as I found myself with you and a few friends in Michigan for a week. We exhausted our days at the lake, on the sand or in boats. Or we sat around inside, playing games or watching hours and hours of movies. I pretended to fall asleep just so I could get my head on your shoulder. I made you a peanut butter sandwich or two. I guided you when we played Hearts, even though my plan was really just to shoot the moon. Who thought that Taboo could be so fun? Who knew that catching the Mushu Flu could set you so far back in life (Life)? I saw you every morning, and hated to leave you every night.
Remember when we built the fort in the room of your cabin? We put the mattresses on top of the dressers and on the floor to create a comfy shelter, but ended up just huddling together on the bare, hard spring box, a cover wrapped around us as we sat outside the masterpiece we had just built.
Right before summer ended I asked you if you liked me. The answer had to be yes, I felt it. I felt all the signs and I was sure of it. But you jumped a few steps ahead and explained that there were rules we had to follow, rules that prohibited us from dating. I didn't care what others thought, but I, we, cared about hurting friends. I was glad we avoided creating another conflict that night, but found myself unsatisfied because you never told me "yes" or "no", even if I did know the answer.
But I didn't stop, did I? And we'd talk on the phone occassionally and I'd tell you that thinking about you was inevitable and it'd get real quiet. On and off our communication would go. And everytime it was on I was crazy about you, and I made sure you knew I was. Nope, I didn't stop one bit. Until finally we agreed that it just wouldn't work being more than friends, and I promised to shut up about it.
Shit, just friends? That's the question I ask myself all the time. But look at what has become of our relationship: you joined cross country after I joined track, I started writing after watching your play. I didn't think I'd ever find myself following a T.V. soap opera religiously, or reading books during free time. You have influenced me so much. You're the reason why I like classy girls; the ones with the long skirts and the ballet shoes. You have become more than a friend, you've become a teacher to me in some way. I'm always listening to you, always learning from you. I tell you everything, I'll tell you anything. Yes, it sucks seeing you usually twice a month, sometimes less, but we are still closer than we have ever been. And don't you love that?
I'm not going to lie to myself and say that I don't like you, because I just can't. The obvious step is, of course, to just move the hell on. Hey, I am. You have. But I still message you the moment you sign on, or wait a few minutes to do it, just in case you find it creepy. And I still leave my phone on for a few extra hours, just in case you might call me. I still make sure not to watch all the Star Wars, one immediately after another, just in case you find time to join me.
I hated it on your Sixteenth birthday when you slow danced with some other guy and no one else. But you made up for it by complimenting me on my tuxedo. You made up for it even more when you told me two years later that you liked my ridiculously long hair back then. I told you that I've always liked your hair, even when it was obnoxious and covering your face.
Back in the Eighth grade, my girlfriend, a day before breaking up with me, asked me why I had never had a crush on you, never tried to go out with you. Was it because we had just started becoming close, even though the end was so near? Perhaps. But I was beginning to know who you were by then. I was beginning to appreciate you. And I am so glad I did.
There are so many years where I can't say anything about our friendship, and I kind of hate that it's that way. But then I spent a whole year sitting right next to you and it was great. Talk about the best of friends! We would talk about who was better, Britney Spears or Christina Aguleria. We would talk about why vegitarians sucked. We would rant about everything and laugh about everything. Our table would sing Blink-182, Limp Bizkit, you know, the hits of the year. It was great to be able to have a conversation with you every day of school; we were catching up on all the talking we had missed since kindergarten.
But that's not to say that I didn't like making fun of you, along with all the other boys. We called you a lesbian, trying to confirm the fact that you licked carpet. Of course, no one in that class knew what licking carpet was, but we bugged you about it anyway. We singled you out to the point where someone decided to give everyone a sip of his awesome juice pouch except you and your best friend burst out in tears, exclaiming "why don't you just leave her alone?!" I am sorry, I took it too far. Is that why we didn't talk at all the following year?
Summer came and went, and the whole "becoming awesome friends" part kind of faded. All of a sudden it was punk rock: loud, fast music and bracelets up to your elbows. We all preferred seeing each other with our hair long and covering our faces. I thought it was so cool that you had a rip right in the middle of your little boy's t-shirt. You definately had a bad ass attitude going for you. I wish we would've talked more. Is it because we were worn out from all that talking we did the year before?
Things started to change over the summer, the pace started to pick up. I got to hang out with you at camp. You and those other punk girls. It was still a lot of long hair and fast music, not to say that I didn't get my fill of Blink and "pop-punk" on the side, while getting yelled at by you and everyone else, mainly just with "THEY SUCK!" Whatever, man. I listened to the Ramones and The Misfits. And don't act like you didn't know the words to some Boxcar Racer songs. Even the punk girls were knowledgable in that band. We didn't talk an extreme amount, we didn't the year before high school either. But it was okay, because I could still say with confidence that we were friends. I could still see you at a birthday party or during recess and get a laugh out of you. We, our whole group of friends, became really close towards the end of our last year together. Every after school day was a big circle of boys and girls, talking and laughing for at least a half hour before heading home.
When pre-high school summer came and you and your boyfriend, my closest friend, had to break it off, I was scared because I didn't want you two to lose contact. I was scared of what was coming next, seeing that circle of friends break into little sections for the next part of their lives.
And then something happened.
All of a sudden, I'm calling you on the phone and we're talking about all the drama between our friends and I'm just pouring out every little detail about myself, constantly apologizing because I felt you weren't understanding what I was saying. You probably weren't, but you listened anyway. You always listen to me, you know. And the calls got more frequent, even though I didn't see you so much over the summer. Or was it because I didn't see you so much over the summer? And it felt like back in the day, only without the picking on you and calling you words that I don't know the definition of. Everything just got more personal, and I went beyond the surface of who you were. I learned what asexual meant, not in the sense that you reproduce with yourself. I learned what a lot of words meant from you. But of course! You were always reading. . .
When freshmen year came, I wasn't able to sit next to you every morning and sing songs with you. So I had to remind you of the time when we were able to do that, that is whenever I could get a phone call out of you and your busy schedule. I didn't see you too much, but it was great when I did. Our personal conversations mainly took place on the convenient internet. We talked about who I liked and who you didn't, and we talked about ourselves. And in half the conversations we had that year I would ask you why you were so self-conscious, followed with an "I think you're beautiful." I always hoped that it would make you feel good. It made me feel good. By the end of the year I was able to truthfully tell you that I missed you. I didn't really like that much and I hoped the summer would be different. But summer was different, wasn't it?
Twenty or thirty crushes passed through me in a year, but you stuck. I didn't tell you, or did I? Okay, I did. Maybe I didn't explicitly say it, but I'm sure you figured it out. The question was now "do you like me?" My phone started ringing again, and it wasn't even my mom. Your phone started ringing ten times as much. And August before sophomore year ended with a bang as I found myself with you and a few friends in Michigan for a week. We exhausted our days at the lake, on the sand or in boats. Or we sat around inside, playing games or watching hours and hours of movies. I pretended to fall asleep just so I could get my head on your shoulder. I made you a peanut butter sandwich or two. I guided you when we played Hearts, even though my plan was really just to shoot the moon. Who thought that Taboo could be so fun? Who knew that catching the Mushu Flu could set you so far back in life (Life)? I saw you every morning, and hated to leave you every night.
Remember when we built the fort in the room of your cabin? We put the mattresses on top of the dressers and on the floor to create a comfy shelter, but ended up just huddling together on the bare, hard spring box, a cover wrapped around us as we sat outside the masterpiece we had just built.
Right before summer ended I asked you if you liked me. The answer had to be yes, I felt it. I felt all the signs and I was sure of it. But you jumped a few steps ahead and explained that there were rules we had to follow, rules that prohibited us from dating. I didn't care what others thought, but I, we, cared about hurting friends. I was glad we avoided creating another conflict that night, but found myself unsatisfied because you never told me "yes" or "no", even if I did know the answer.
But I didn't stop, did I? And we'd talk on the phone occassionally and I'd tell you that thinking about you was inevitable and it'd get real quiet. On and off our communication would go. And everytime it was on I was crazy about you, and I made sure you knew I was. Nope, I didn't stop one bit. Until finally we agreed that it just wouldn't work being more than friends, and I promised to shut up about it.
Shit, just friends? That's the question I ask myself all the time. But look at what has become of our relationship: you joined cross country after I joined track, I started writing after watching your play. I didn't think I'd ever find myself following a T.V. soap opera religiously, or reading books during free time. You have influenced me so much. You're the reason why I like classy girls; the ones with the long skirts and the ballet shoes. You have become more than a friend, you've become a teacher to me in some way. I'm always listening to you, always learning from you. I tell you everything, I'll tell you anything. Yes, it sucks seeing you usually twice a month, sometimes less, but we are still closer than we have ever been. And don't you love that?
I'm not going to lie to myself and say that I don't like you, because I just can't. The obvious step is, of course, to just move the hell on. Hey, I am. You have. But I still message you the moment you sign on, or wait a few minutes to do it, just in case you find it creepy. And I still leave my phone on for a few extra hours, just in case you might call me. I still make sure not to watch all the Star Wars, one immediately after another, just in case you find time to join me.
I hated it on your Sixteenth birthday when you slow danced with some other guy and no one else. But you made up for it by complimenting me on my tuxedo. You made up for it even more when you told me two years later that you liked my ridiculously long hair back then. I told you that I've always liked your hair, even when it was obnoxious and covering your face.
Back in the Eighth grade, my girlfriend, a day before breaking up with me, asked me why I had never had a crush on you, never tried to go out with you. Was it because we had just started becoming close, even though the end was so near? Perhaps. But I was beginning to know who you were by then. I was beginning to appreciate you. And I am so glad I did.