2006-01-19 - 12:57 p.m.
I have this male friend. We’ll call him “Larry.” Larry and I went to high school together. Larry doesn’t have many friends, mainly because he’s abrasive and negative, but he and I have been building our friendship, steadily, since we were 11, and I love him, so we function together okay. But, a couple of months ago, Larry took me out for drinks (Larry has a big, shiny car and a lot of money, so he likes to go to big, shiny places and drop his green, velvet money all over the floor and roll in it and pay other people to roll in it and use it to buy me drinks) and Larry was particularly rude and scathing. Larry doesn’t like himself very much so it’s hard for him to like other people, and when “other people” want to talk about themselves, and they don’t want to listen to Larry bitch about it’s even harder for Larry to handle. Needless to say, I decided that I didn’t need to be around Larry’s negativo energy for awhile so I didn’t call him for a few months.
Well, Larry started sweet-talkin’ and, wouldn’t you know it, I acted like a fool (“You’re just a fool, you know you’re….”) and I let him come over. I let him take me out for dinner. I let him make me feel like the biggest, fattest moron on, well, the left side of the restaurant cuz, let’s face it, there was a douchebag-looking waitress working that night and I’m pretty sure she beat me out for the Grand Prize of Moronic Face-having, but that’s neither here nor there.
Larry hates himself. Hates, hates, hates himself. Bottom line. And here’s another bottom line: go get some therapy, motherfucker. You know what I have less tolerance for than Terry Bauer’s retarded amnesia, 24, First Season? Sorry-ass pieces of shit that can’t think outside the bubble long enough to thank Christ that they aren’t covered with terminal illness, that their wives can’t have kids, that they don’t live in a country where you gotta stand on-fucking-line for bread, that plutonium ain’t eating their souls through their assholes like George Mason, 24, Second Season, that they have all of their vital organs, that they didn’t just get robbed, that their kids haven’t been stabbed or raped, and that tomorrow, the world’s sunshine is probably gonna hit them square on their ass faces.
Now, everybody has a bad day or two. I’d be an ignorant asshole if I thought otherwise. We all feel fat, unloved, stupid, without friends, like our hair isn’t looking quite right, and like our parents (or God) don’t love us as much as they love our brothers. Like, I get it. I’ve slept until two in the afternoon because I couldn’t face the day. I’ve self-medicated. I’ve forgotten about everyone else in the whole world, because no one could possibly understand what I was going through. And I was a fucking schmuck.
As my favorite pretty-hair-having friend has been known to say, “You don’t have any friends because you’re no fun.” Cuz who wants to listen to your sorry ass go on and on?
So my New Year’s resolution recommendation for Larry is to grow up. And to be more fun.
But Larry and I aren’t friends anymore, so I guess I’ll never know if he’ll succeed on that end.
