What are Friends for?

English: happy friendship day
English: happy friendship day (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Sitting and eating and eating and pretending with my big group..now the bears, not the blue bombers..I wished they get this group’s entitlement under control. Slurping down some rations thinking ’bout the day to come. What cats we can help out of tree? Where to point the next blood drive?
Slugging back a low-fat coffee with high powered protein snacks, I wonder about the definition of friends.
Bianca my large at large artist friend, well she stays on like an STD. Clinging to my drama. Holding on to every tidbit of ‘woe is me!’ She has no self-esteem and thinks she can get some kind of ego boost by hanging with a tree photographer who is blissfully unaware of growing pains.
Zoey, she held fast. I’m sad to say, I didn’t know really the slightest thing about her past until Kate showed up. I guess someone had to take the focus off self and learn.
How was I to know she wanted to be a Vet tech? Studying online! So what if she had an attic full of brothers with varied and asundried past. Her uncomfortable and sometimes painful living arrangements with Mom and boyfriend of the month.
It takes too much energy to find out this stuff.  More than my girth will allow.

Friendship is a weird thing.  Seems that many want it.  Some work with it.   And, I just wait for it fill my voids.

Completely understandable why I only leech on to those who offer me something.  Totally in awe of how they allow me to become everything they are in the chance I can loose myself.

De-friending?  I’ve done that way too much.  I am a serial de-friender!  In truth, there is no necessity in holding on to loose ends.

Zoey remains friends with psycho-bitch Kate.

the shallow pool of friendship
the shallow pool of friendship

She does it out of homage to me.  She does it to keep an eye on the freak.  Perhaps, she does it because she is just to lazy to hit the big metaphorical button, DE-FREIND!

Collection of Friends: Straight or Otherwise

Pimp Juice energy drink.
Pimp Juice energy drink. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

At some point in time, we; Mother Theresa, Father Floyd, Beckett Couvillion the third and I, moved from our quaint and slightly crunchy Canterbury home.   The memories of the lilac’s blooming for that one short week and the horses and the woodlands and the snobbery, makes me sad.  I drive by the old house from time to time.  My best friend lives down the street and Beckett loves to roam the nature trail across from the horse farm.

Sounds all so poetic, pretty and nice; often times on those drive-by’s, I pull out the pink Izod my mother bought for me and really put on a good girl show.

I have so many friends; I just don’t know what to do with them all.  There is Bianca who turns me on to some good weed.  There is Josie who takes me along for a man’s point of view when she’s buying her trinket boyfriend lingerie for her to model and him to fondle.

Of course, there is Zoey who believes every morsel of slightly tainted truth I feed her.

Funny, Bianca threw the party on the 4th of July that allowed me to drink myself into bed with some boy I had never met.  For days after the event, the concern was not for my sobriety but the poor boy wasn’t protected, if you know what I mean.  I can’t have kids.  I have too much not to do with myself, yet.

Josie, well, she likes to see me have a few drinks too.  She doesn’t feel so alone that way.  We sit at some mall somewhere, drink Rum and Cokes and she tells me about how good her sex life is.

Zoey, well, the jury is still out on that one, I want her to be more than a friend.  I make all the right suggestions, let’s play fight, let’s talk about the latest knife you bought, so on and so forth.

I wasn’t popular in school but I made friends with everyone.  That said, sometimes, the lies I tell ‘friends’makes me want to get a twelve pack, pull out the knife and start cutting.

One time I even got up the nerve to call/text/pester Kate, my ex-something or another.  I think the conversation had been mostly one sided:

“I was stuck in my own world and I shouldn’t have been.  If I could take back everything starting from our last text last night I would; I didn’t drink, that’s a plus.  I know I shouldn’t have texted and called you when I was high, I just miss you.   I even brought your flannel shirt to Bianca’s so I could fall asleep.”

No response.


“Bianca knows I’m not coming over the next time there is a sleepover.  That I’m staying with you.  She sometimes runs into my mom at UNH so she said she cover me.”

No response, once again.  I suppose, Kate who is sober, didn’t want to hear my not drunk but high slaughter of the English language.  I suppose I would have felt the same way.

I didn’t drink though, only did a little weed with prescription drugs and drank an O’Doul’s!

I believe the only message I got from Kate had arrived the next day; How are you?  What else did you do?  Stuff like that.

My response:

“Can we change the subject? My brain is fried today and those questions are difficult on the top of a dime.”

Obviously, drunk, high or sober, English is my second language.

Beckett Couvillion the third is out of Pappy’s handed down Honda, he wants to run and romp and I want to know what friendship is.  I had over 300 friends on Facebook ‘til Mother Theresa made me shut down my account.

Doesn’t that account for something?




My eating habits are much like an ethnic elderly women’s; if you are sad, eat, if you are, happy, eat, if you feel sick, you are not eating enough, eat for emotions it will never fail you.

Bullshit!  I’ve now gone to the local not for anyone up and coming gallery that is conveniently right down the street from where I live.  Following my mother home I know just two car lengths ahead of me she sits at a red light, thinking, what am I going to do with her?

Her being me!

You can take the trash out of the trailer but you can’t take the trailer out of the trash.  Any friend I’ve ever had I searched diligently for on an app for Facebook.  I have now hit over 300.  Don’t know most of those people but they are my friend.  At least, in my dumbed down innocent way, I am led to believe that.

I can’t always hang out with Zoey because she enjoys piercings and knives.  Mother Theresa doesn’t understand that kind of twenty something philosophy.  Therefore, any time allotted for Zoey must be infrequent and others need to be around.

In other words, Mother Theresa allows an occasional outing with Zoey as long as, we are in a very public place.

The only bosom buddy I have that receives any approval from Mommy Dearest is, Bianca.

I tell you this in secrecy and beg for no Facebook messaging.  Bianca considers herself an artist with an edge.  Bianca is no more an artist then I am a picture taker.  She has not depth.  I have no depth.  Certainly a requirement in becoming an artist.

I love Bianca dearly but the sobriety thing seems to get in the way.  Sure as a depressive feels persecuted, Bianca will invite over for a slumber party and guilt me into eating, drinking, smoking weed and watching movies about mythical creatures.

I like Bianca, she’s fatter than I.  That helps with the body image problem I have.  Every drunk loves another drunk, misery loves company.

My mother approves of Bianca only because she is a fellow worshipper of the Catch Phrase College that Theresa works at.  In mother’s eyes, Bianca cannot be white trash by simply being a mouse in the maze of the propaganda my mother hands out to her all students.

Did I sleep with Bianca?  Shit no.  I find her body repulsive.  I find her vacant attempts are being artsy dismaying.  I dislike in her what I dislike in myself.

She stands for nothing.  I stand for nothing.  We both fall for anything and medicate ourselves into thinking we are something we are not.

I look down at my hand as it open the driver’s side door.  There are two thins markings on the inside of my wrist.  Suicide is never easy if you don’t read the directions carefully.  I am never lucid and clear on days like today.  Wanting to cleanse myself of my incarceration of parental living quarters.  I had been looking most of the day for a job.  The only thing I am good at is exposing myself; nudity in camera, canvas or internet form.  Sex, no I’m not any good at that.  I’m too self-absorbed.  I’m too self-destructive.

My next job?  Shit, if I know.  I’m still waiting to hear from the Civil Liberties Union.  Still waiting on a court date.  Can’t do too much I may have to take the fall for my cries of wolves upon a deaf audience.