I’m a fairly good friend.
Ok screw this modest shit; I’m a fucking great friend. Why? Because I genuinely WANT to be. Because I choose very carefully who I’ll be a great friend to as not to spread myself so thinly that when a friend calls on me I can easily run to their side, back, whatever. I’m a good friend because I work REALLY hard at it. It’s like my 2nd job. Well, really, like my 1st because I work harder at it than any other job I’ve ever actually applied for.
Yada, yada, I’m a good friend.
But sometimes I’m just not the person to talk to about certain shit.
I’m not the friend you call when you wanna be sugar coated. I’m not the friend you call when you wanna bawl your eyes out A YEAR after you’ve broken up with your boyfriend. I respect everyone’s process, but I can’t abide the bullshit. I’m not that friend you call when you want someone to go “Woo woo woo, poor, poor you.” I can’t really help you with that. When you call me and ask me if you should leave your asshole boyfriend because you think he’s a cheating slutbag ho-face I’m gonna tell you yes. When you ask me why I’m gonna tell you because he’s a cheating slutbag ho-face.
No punches pulled.
If you ask me should you cut lose a fair weather friend who keeps fucking you over, I’m gonna tell you yes. I don’t care if its what you wanna hear right now. Its what you NEED to hear right now. And months, maybe years from now I’m not gonna give you the chance to say, “Why didn’t you tell me?!?” I won’t be that friend who mislead you and let you think that the slutbag ho-face was just “misunderstood”. You know, that plus the fact that I like saying slutbag ho-face.
What kills me is that my friends know this. They KNOW. My tact is minimal, my tolerance for bullshit is nonexistant, my vision for silver linings blurred. I deal in the real. I like truth. Why? Because truth don’t change.
So why do people call me when they want someone to commiserate with? When they wanna wallow and feel pitiful and bad about themselves? Why? I’m not gonna let you dump on someone I love (you). I’m not gonna encourage you to sit on your (soon to be fat) ass and eat ice cream and cry at chick flicks. I’m gonna tell you to be proactive. I’m gonna tell you to do something about how you feel. I’m gonna tell you to take care of YOU.
Now don’t get me wrong, when my friends have been fucked without proper lubricant I can stand back and say, “Yeah that musta hurt pretty bad there.” When the pain is fresh, and you need someone to call at 3am because you’re upset and crying and can’t sleep, then yes, call me then, because I WILL wake up and talk to you ’til you get sleepy. Or until you just get tired of talking. Whichever comes first. And then the day after that, when you need to talk some more, call me then too. You can even use all my daytime minutes. You’re more than worth the overages.
But you know what I won’t do? I won’t let you be the SAME PITIFUL WOE IS ME VICTIM 2 YEARS AFTER FINALLY GIVING UP THE SLUTBAG HO-FACE THAT NO ONE LIKED ANYWAY THAT TREATED YOU LIKE SHIT, FLIRTED WITH YOUR FRIENDS, FUCKED RANDOM GROUPIE BITCHES, FUCKED UP YOUR CREDIT AND BROKE YOUR HEART. GOT THAT GIRLIE?!?!
So in conclusion, you wanna talk about hurt? Yes, lets do that, but lets also DO something about it. It doesn’t have to be on my time, it should be on yours. But I won’t allow you to believe things are better than they are, I won’t let you stay stagnant for years over the same situation. No, you don’t have to do what I would do, but do SOMETHING. ANYTHING. ONE THING. I won’t allow you to hurt yourself by playing the victim. Not while I’m around to dispense a little truth. If that makes me a bad friend so be it.
And maybe I could be nicer about it. And I swear I do try. I promise my tact has nearly doubled in the last couple years. (I’m happy to report I sit happily at the all time high og 2% up 50% from just two years ago.) But there’s only so gentle I can put it before I grab you by the shoulders, shake you like a yoohoo and say “HEY! You’re being STUPID.”
Talking about the slutbag ho-face who broke your heart 2 weeks ago over ice cream and chick flicks? Yes. (Well maybe mojitos and southern comfort food. Or just the drinks, you know, whatever.) Still agonizing over the every little detail of things with the slutbag ho-face who broke your heart TWO YEARS ago.
I think I got that outta my system.
Now I’m really done.