Everything about you is borrowed. Your celebrity crushes are borrowed, your style is secondhand. You rent your mother’s high school persona while she lives vicariously through you, smoking your cigarettes (can you say “family fun?”) and sharing your fetishes.
You crave fans, not friends. People who make you look better. People you (think you) can outshine.
I’m sorry I tore you down. I ended up disappointed that I put so much confidence in someone who was at the core, so very empty. I ended up disappointed in who I had become. I realize now that it’s not your fault. You were born to people who told you over and over that you were beautiful and special and unique. You were their golden child. You got new cars and new shoes and regurgitated old ideas. You had a wonderful, supportive family but you lacked one key thing: tragedy. Your life has sparkled without the true tarnish of death, disenchantment, or turmoil. And so you remain spellbound.
I’m sorry that I was condescending. I’m working on it every day. I am angry about some things that my life has presented me with, but I am not jealous of you. Think of the stories I’ll write! About drunken fights, sabotage, and self-loathing. About time, and the way it gnaws at love. About pain that bursts the mind’s shackles and unhinges the gates of sanity. About freedom and spontaneity. I’ll do things because I want to, to fulfill my deepest desires, not just for the sake of it, for street cred, or for bragging rights. I will love what I do every day.
So, no, apologies aside, I don’t want your “friendship,” but I do want closure and growth.
I hope you find tragedy and heartbreak, but I say this without a single malicious intention. I hope it forges newness and integrity within you.