Sometimes I wonder if my friends will ever know how much I love them. I mean, okay, two things: First, I know I could just tell them. I could also just tell Colleague X to go fuck himself, that I never want to work with him again. I could tell Teacher Y that she’s a fracasada, or I could tell Friend Z that she’s too fat to give me diet advice—I could tell a lot of people a lot of things in a magical world without consequences.
But I can’t just come out and profess my platonic love for my friendships; it’s not that simple. Even the logistics are off—would I gather them all together, like an intervention? Or take them out to lunch, one at a time? Would I start with my closest, dearest, life-long friends and move out towards amicable acquaintances? That sounds like a recipe for bruised feelings.
Second, they fucking piss me off all the time, these friends. They hurt my feelings. Or, rather, I get my feelings hurt. I have delicate emotions; it’s a liability.
Another thing is that I am a perfectionist—I expect a lot from myself, and I expect almost as much from others. Then they flake on me, or they give me that look like I’m weird, and I become a frowny face.
But, oh, how I love them anyways. And maybe it’s because I love them that I expect so much—because I want them to be all the things that I see in them.
They’re funny, my friends, funnier than any of the assholes I have to listen to on public transportation. And they’re thoughtful, very “detallistas” (very American)—they buy me headphones that work with my too-small ear-holes, or run to the bus stop to bring me my schoolbooks. They put up with me being a cranky pants, and they always share their booze, or let me eat their sugar cereal without asking. They buy me sushi and beer when I’m going through rough times. They drink wine with me and feed me and let me bitch about life.
They burn me CDs for no special reason, and if it weren’t for this I would have NO music, te juro.
They give me books.
They let me eat their leftovers when I’m the last one to breakfast. They send me air-mail packages with dried mangoes, and tea, and they mail me hand-made postcards and sweet, stupid letters. Or they e-mail me about morning wood.
They’re big dorks, my friends, just like me, and we love classical music. We read web comics. We watch terrible, terrible television and eat Wendy’s dollar menu.
And they are so, so beautiful, and so capable, so special. Sometimes I just want to shake them and scream “What the fuck are you doing? Don’t you know that you’re worth more than this? Don’t you know that you can do whatever you want? That you can change the world? Don’t you know that you are one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met?!?”
But I don’t. I just love them silently. I love them across an ocean, from the other side of the world. I think of them all the time—every song I hear, every movie I watch, or the things I eat, or the new things I am learning—it’s all connected to a friend, a specific memory, or else it means nothing until I know I can share it with one of them. (Turns out, if Sarah falls in the forest, and none of her friends are around to see it, it doesn’t make a sound. It’s like it never even happened at all).
Anyways, I was just thinking of them, is all. Like I do. JUST SAILING MY LITTLE FRIENDSHIPS ON AN OCEAN OF FEELINGS IN THE DEPTHS OF MY HEART.
Or maybe it’s that I just drank some coffee, and it’s doing that druggy thing to me where I feel all high and happy and want to write. Then later, it’s going to wear off and I’m going to feel all grumpy and shitty and hate the whole world and its stupid, stupid faces.
But I’ll still love my friends. Happy Valentine’s.