MY FORMER FRIEND, THE WHORE
YOU STUPID FUCKING BITCH
She would call it sex work, of course. She was a graduate student in women’s studies, I went to a different school and studied physics. In high school she was my best friend, I loved her. My other best friend was a homosexual who dated her off and on throughout high school and she cheated on him all the time. I described her (to her face) as “tragically fated.” She probably thought that was romantic. (It is, unfortunately.) She liked to combine Xanax and alcohol, a potent combination for losing yourself and absolving guilt, especially when you’re a ninety pound vegan. I sat next to her passed out, frail frame multiple times at house parties to stop some stranger from fingering her. We disagreed about everything. I loved that. She would argue with me (I was always right, of course) in the same conversation where she told me that I was probably the smartest person she would ever speak to. I was never physically attracted to her, it was a blessing that we were never romantically involved. But we had such chemistry, there was always a hint of sexual tension, which is better than sex, of course. The imagining, the fantasy, the hope, an ideal always out of reach just the way you like it.
It’s a common story, friends drifting apart after high school, going to different colleges. But I was totally consistent, I have been an old man since I was eight years old; as world-wide psychosis ramped up I remained the same ornery lover of Truth. An asshole. My mom called me an asshole when I was in elementary school at various times, once when I answered a simple yes or no question with a “no.” (“No” is a magical spell, most yes or no questions aren’t questions at all, they are threats.) We talked on the phone while we were both in college, me studying physics because what could possibly be a better use of my time, and her doing women’s studies with the same self-justification, I’m sure. The chemistry still fizzled and bubbled, we could talk for hours at a time. Always disagreeing, of course.
She had multiple sugar daddies, she was an “empowered woman,” she told me that she never had sex with these old men I guess because she thought I was an idiot. I was not judgmental, I knew we always disagreed and she wouldn’t care what I said anyway, it was interesting to hear her stories and psychological and academic justifications of her empowerment. She talked about “the patriarchy” unironically, it was always a funny joke to me. She made thousands of dollars going on dates with old men, I suggested saving some money, I was envious of her opportunity to do so, she preferred going on trips to Prague.
Eventually something snapped, I think it was during Covid but I’m not even really sure. I joke that I’ve been dissociated since 2007, hysterical laughter can sound a lot like sobbing. I was an essential worker during the “pandemic,” I worked alone in an office, I lived alone in my own house; eventually when the “pandemic” stopped basically nothing changed for me. My job stayed the same, I never went out much anyway besides getting groceries, I accepted at age 27 that “I guess I will never really be talking to anyone ever again.” I didn’t really talk with her at all during the “pandemic” and it still feels like I haven’t really woken up from that dream. Because nothing really changed for me. I’m guilty too, I could have tried harder to talk to her. I never had much of a public presence, I didn’t broadcast my beliefs about things, but I knew, and she knew, that we disagreed about everything. And something snapped.
Every six months or so I sent her a text message, something like “I miss you. Would you care to chat on the phone?” She never responded; I would always make up excuses: she’s very busy, she didn’t see it, she forgot to hit send, she accidentally saved a draft. Deep down I knew she didn’t want to speak to me, but I couldn’t believe it, she was one of the only people I loved, I thought well of her in spite of the fact that she was wrong about literally everything and a lying prostitute. I sent her videos of my Žižek impression, she was the only person I knew who would appreciate them, she never opened them. And eventually something snapped, she replied to one of my simple messages after a couple years of not doing so.
It was the cruelest message I have ever received, her words were straightforward: she thought I was an asshole, being around me made her feel bad, and she didn’t want to talk to me. I nearly vomited, I didn’t sleep that night. We hadn’t talked at all during “the pandemic,” the last time we spoke it was pleasant (I thought). What else was I wrong about? I was totally consistent, I laughed about trannies in high school and I did it during our college phone calls. I told her years prior that her education was a specialization in un-reality, it entailed making her literally dumber, she laughed and then we talked about The Unbearable Lightness of Being (which I lovingly called Sad Europeans Having Sex Abstractly). But I guess something snapped.
I was sad about this for a long time, the week after she texted me back I ranted and raved to my family members who knew her. Haven’t I always been an asshole, I asked, my mother and father both assured me I always had been. What changed, I wondered, we hadn’t spoken in years and we always disagreed about everything, that was always the nature of our friendship. I felt something inside me float away, the final tether connecting me to some sort of shared reality beyond my immediate family crumbled, the little man inside me was free to float off into space to freeze and starve. It made me so sad, it still makes me sad. We were adults now, we talked about talking as adults in our youth, I mourned a hypothetical memory. And for what, exactly?
I never responded to her message. I thought about calling her a faggot retard (I am an asshole, after all) but decided against it. I wasn’t going to plead with her, she plainly told me that she did not want to talk to me; I pretended to wonder what had changed to protect myself from the truth: it was her, it wasn’t me. It was beyond my control and our friendship was not strong enough to stave off the possession. She was possessed, I didn’t want to accept a truth I (and plenty of others) articulated as a sixteen year old: women (most men are spiritually women) submit to the most dominant masculine force in their life, in absence of an actual man (typically the father or husband) then that force is culture. The possessive, cultural force could no longer sanction my buffoonery, I was an enemy, and we were progressing through history. I thought she was smart enough to resist it. I guess I thought wrong. (Luckily, thinking What Could Have Been is very romantic and I’m a sucker for yearning.)
It’s good she is free from your toxicity.
That gratuitous Possession still at the end: such an asshole move.