1. Because HER diary mentions ME by name. And that would be bad.

2. Because I don't want her to read this. I want *strangers* to read this...not people who know me. Even if they haven't seen me in 9 years.

Yeah. Anyway. A. I met A. when I was 11. We didn't get off to a great start. She was jealous of me. Me. Hah.

I had just moved to a new neighborhood...new school. In elementary school I was A Pariah. I had one friend. She was my friend because she was too shy to make others. She was perfectly nice...but we had nothing in common. I moved to a new town for 7th grade. It was nice: I got to sort of remake myself.

It still took a bit of time & effort to figure out that whole Other People bit, but I was apparently good enough at making friends with A.'s friends that she got jealous. Until we made friends.

She lived right down the street from me. From age 12 until about age 14 or so...we were together ALL the time. I slept with her, I ate with her. I was at her house constantly (her shiftless papa left us to our own devices). We spent a lot of time online on her computer (we had a BBS we used). We liked the same...everything.

To this day I can remember her exact smell.

Granted, we were your standard depressed smart kid teenagers. But we loved each other. Her life sucked way worse than mine. But, it was always her house we hung out at. Ugly, 70s, shiny and/or burlappy house. With her smell. We would sleep curled up with one another.

When she attempted suicide, she didn't call me. She called my boyfriend, who called me. I prefer to think that he was simply more impotent than I, and she knew he wouldn't DO much about it. I, of course, called 911 and got my ass down there pronto.

She and I have been back in touch recently. And she had something to say about that moment, but I forget what it was and I can't find it right now.

Anyway. I think I told her something along the lines of of course I'm here, of course you're going to the hospital, what the hell else did you THINK was going to happen? I would let you die?

But I think I let her die.

Oh, that's melodramatic.

Abbreviatedly: I went mental-ward-wards myself not long after she. And I went into Faux Get-My-Shit-Together mode (oh, and like there's ever a REAL get-your-shit-together mode at FIFTEEN, hah) shortly thereafter. And shortly thereafter THAT, I went to college. Abandoned her, to her.

I got a letter from her once when I was in college. She told me how incredibly jealous of me she was the whole time we were friends. I felt terrible. I never meant for her to feel like that.

I was in love with her, after all. Sure, I didn't really understand that at the time (nor did she), but I was. She was My Girl. And I was hers. If I had been just a touch more self-aware we'd've been fuckin like (gay) bunnies. Such is life.

Now...she's still living in her dad's house. Working a horribly shitty job. At least she's in love with a girl that seems really cool and to want her to be okay.

And I...can't quite make it back to being able to give anything to her. I want her to be okay. I still love her. I still feel like she MEANS something to me. But I can't do much beyond that...even if she wanted me to.

Thus...let her die. No, of course I didn't. Everyone's their own person, and she's her own responsibility. I could never have made her happy. At some level, I know that. At the same time, I can only feel like if I'd stuck around, maybe things would've been different...for both of us. I dunno. That's also incredibly arrogant of me, I know that too. Like I could change someone else's life. I guess it's all partly wishful thinking.

But regardless of any of that, a toast to A. I honor her for being there when no one else would do. For being the most original thing there is in this world: a teenage girl's best friend. For loving me back. For holding me in bed, and for watching shitty movies over and over with me. You deserve that, and you deserve better.

Anybody who reads this, say a little prayer, or whatever, for my A. and yours.