I have too many paper chain friends. I can set a match to one and watch the flame lick up each in succession before I can even blink. I can’t miss paper friends much; they all come from the same mold. Our relationships aren’t even as thick as the paper they’re made of. It’s the quantity, not the quality, which I crave. It’s the heat, not the burn.
To me, you were more than a paper friend. You weren’t just for PR, you were real. You were inspiration, courage, acceptance and happiness. To you I was nothing. To call me paper would be a gross exaggeration; a compliment. I was someone disgusting, emotionless, non-feeling. A worm.
I try to think of something I can do to spite you, but nothing I do would make you care. I’ll drink and smoke and do the things you warned me about. I’ll cut myself deeper than ever before. But I’m cellophane to you.
I just have to get through seeing you tomorrow, then a year more just like it. You could read this, but I know you wouldn’t give a shit anyway.