My Best Friend.

This is My Dad,
Myself,
and My Best Friend.

My dad is a wise man.
Have you ever noticed that?
I'm sure you have.
In so many ways, he’s wise.
He’s smart.
Insanely smart.
The smartest person I know.
Just useless crap, you know?
Stuff that make you say,
"How the hell do you know that?"
And he'll just smile.
Because he knows.
I mean,
Airplanes?
He looks in the sky,
“Oh look, that’s a F37 or 737 or 3874QTR387,”
or some other confusing, unknown name for an airplane.
Motorcycles?
He can take one apart and put it back together in a day.
He knows the names of every part of a motorcycle.
He knows instantly, as a bike goes screaming past my house, exactly what bike that was.
Racing?
“You see this track? I raced there.”
“That corner? I crashed my bike in that corner.”
“You’ve been to this track, back when you were a baby.”
“You wouldn’t remember it, but you sat right there when I was racing on my bike still.”
“Would you go racing again?” I ask. “If you had the chance?”
“Absolutely,” he always says.
“In a heart beat.”
Tools
Cars.
Bikes.
Sports.
Airplanes.
Maps.
Math.
Advice.
And all the other useless stuff that’s been crammed into his head.
My dad is the smartest person I know.
So I go to him for advice.
All the time.
So when you tell me you did this, with one of my best friends,
My ‘Baseball friend’
I’m going to him.
No doubt about it.

In all honesty,
I thought you were using him.
I thought he was a backup plan.
Someone to make Mr. Fruitcake jealous.
Or was it Porky?
From You’re Side Of The Story?
Whatever.
I thought you were hurting Mr. Baseball friend.
Because you’d be with Porky one second.
Then with Baseball.
Than back to Porky.
And in that process, I thought you were hurting Baseball.
See where I’m going with this?
So I was angry.
With all of this.
But I realize I don’t care.
You’re happy.
I’m not, but I can make myself happy.
This has nothing to do with me anymore.
It never did actually.
This baseball friend and I are hardly friends anymore.
We don’t talk.
We don’t go to the mall.
We don’t do anything at all.
He’s too wrapped up in you.
And that isn’t meant to sound bad.
It’s not meant to sound bitchy, even though it does.
But whatever.
You’re happy with him.
You’re smiling.
Real smiles.
You’re this and that and blah blah blah.
I get it.
Be happy.
I don’t care.
I don’t have anything to do with this.
Stop caring what I think.
Okay?
Just be happy.

~ ~ ~

Want to know something?
You’re not the only one that’s happy.
Really happy.
And smiling.
For real.
I think I truly found myself.
I found my music.
I found my style.
I found my look.
I found my friends.
I found my hobbies.
I found my future.
I found out who I am.
And I’m happy.
And you’re happy.
So what’s the problem?
Because there is a problem.
I can feel it.
You can feel it.
There’s a problem.
There always has to be a problem.
I mean, life is a story.
And a story always has to have a conflict.
We’ve moved on from the idiots.
We’ve moved on from the stairwell.
We’ve moved on from the forest.
We’re better now.
But what is the fucking conflict?
This isn’t leading up to an answer.
The almighty answer.
The answer to everything.
This is a serious question.
What’s wrong?

~ ~ ~

It’s funny how this work out.
Not funny as in ha ha funny.
Just, funny.
Weird funny.
Ironic funny.
My dad and I were talking earlier.
About how people blame things on their mental problems.
You may have seen these on Twitter.
And then you’re story pops up.
And you’re blaming what happened on your mental condition.
This wasn't about you.
Don't get me wrong and start saying it was.
Because it wasn't.
Just an ironic coincidence.
Now.
Before I start ranting.
Can I just say, I’m not making fun of you.
I’m not poking and jabbing at you.
This isn’t meant to be funny.
This is totally serious.
You ask me who you are.
You don’t know who you are.
So you ask me.
And I can’t answer.
That’s because I’m so much better at writing than speaking.
You should know that.
So I’m going to point this out to you.
Hopefully you’ll understand.
You’re you.
Right?
Obviously.
This is Taylor.
She’s funny.
Sarcastic.
Fun to do stupid things with.
Tampons and eyewash stations.
Best times of my life.
Taylor is a writer.
My gawd she’s a writer.
Go check her out.
Baby_Grand
She likes to talk.
A lot.
She’s smart.
Except for math.
But she’s getting better, cause she has an amazing teacher, right?
She wants to be loved.
So she jumps around between a bunch of guys.
Some guys call her a whore.
Lots of girls call her a whore.
But she’s not a whore.
She wants to feel loved.
But she’s going on about it the wrong way.
She needs to slow down.
Love will come.
Real love will come.
Not that fake, sex-driven, lie-filled love.
It will come.
She has a hard time letting go of people she loves.
Past boyfriends.
Past friends.
Because she doesn’t want to let people walk out of her life.
She’s sick of losing people.
Taylor has a hard time with friends.
They seem to fuck her over.
And she seems to hurt them.
Some more than others.
But she loves them.
And if she could chose,
She’d want them all back.
She’d want everything to be okay again.
Taylor lies.
Everybody knows this.
She says she doesn’t, but she does.
And it should bother me.
Sometimes it does.
But most of the time it doesn’t.
I’m smart enough to see through lies.
I know when someone is lying to my face.
But I don’t say anything.
This girl is overwhelmed.
She is angry and hurt and confused.
She doesn’t know who her friends are.
She doesn’t know who to trust.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t trust a single person at the moment.
Taylor is depressed.
Severely.
She’s cut.
Multiple times.
She says she has an eating disorder.
So I’m guessing she’s done worse.
She drinks.
She gets away from herself for a while.
She hates her mom.
Or at least she claims to.
I don’t think she does.
I think she wants to, but she doesn’t.
But hey, these are just thoughts.
I could be way off.
This girl.
She has new best friends every week.
I’m exaggerating.
But it seems like one moment she’s her best friend.
Then he is.
Then I am.
Then he is.
Then she is.
Then I am again.
No wait, now it’s her.
Or is it him?
No, it’s definitely her.
Her lesbian lover?
Wait, what?
And eventually, you don’t know anymore.
Eventually, I don’t know.
I don’t know if I’m her best friend.
I thought I was.
But then I thought I wasn’t.
Then I knew.
I was replaced.
She’s got this new girl.
I guess I can’t blame her.
When I walked away,
When I wasn’t around,
When I was dealing with myself,
My problems,
My life,
She found a new best friend.
And now they’re living happily ever after.
Let me guess.
They’re moving to Cali?
They’re going to buy a house?
Be best-selling authors together?
Sit on a porch, old and wrinkly,
And joke about old times?
Tampons and eye-wash stations?
Oh wait,
Am I getting confused again?
I hate this girl.
This new girl.
You have no idea how much I hate her.
I don’t hate her because she ‘stole my best friend.’
That’s immature and stupid.
She’s just one of those people.
The ones you hate for no reason.
You just do.
That’s her.
And I don’t want to hate her.
Because that makes me look like a bad person.
And that’s far from what I am.
I just don’t like her.
And now she’s best friends,
No,
Lesbian lovers
With my ex-best friend.
Rawr.
But I try not to let it get to me.
Try.
Taylor needs someone to talk to.
All the time.
Drama drama drama.
Phone calls, msn chats, text messages.
She always needs someone.
Which isn’t a bad thing.
It’s good that she’s talking.
It’s just overwhelming when she always picks the same person.
Every single time.
And it’s hard when this person doesn’t always have the answers.
The answers she’s expected to have.
Everything is about Taylor.
It seems that when somebody tells her a story, she always has to one-up it.
You know?
It just feels like she doesn’t care what others think.
It’s like,
“K yeah whatever. Here’s what happened to me.”
I don’t know.
She has a hard time taking blame.
She likes pushing things off,
Saying it wasn't her fault.
Taylor needs to stop thinking about killing herself.
She needs to stop putting these things on Tumblr.
She’s beautiful.
She doesn’t see it.
But she is.
And she has so much to live for.
It’s funny.
I just went through this, editing it.
And the first time I wrote it,
It said,
And she has so much to love for.
Not live.
Love.
Funny.
Anyways.
She just doesn’t see any this.
She’s got so much in her life.
So much.
She can’t leave this world.
Taylor has mental issues.
Depression.
Bipolar.
Sleeping disorders.
Things most of us already knew.
Or at least hunched.
She blames things that happen between her and her friends on these things.
She wasn’t herself at the time.
So she doesn’t have to apologize.
But, that way I see it,
If you know you did something wrong.
And you know you hurt someone.
And you know you should apologize,
Then what does it matter if you have a mental problem?
You hurt someone.
So you apologize.
Doesn’t that make sense?
Because it was still you.
You hurt them.
Whether you were in the right mind or not,
You hurt them.
So you apologize.
Right?
I don’t know about you,
But that makes a hell of a lot of sense to me.
And want to know where I learned that?
My dad.
My wise, amazing dad.
So anyways.
There’s more.
So much more.
I could go on and on.
And I would.
But this, right now, is reaching almost 7 pages in Microsoft Works Word Processor,
Times New Roman
Size 11
Center.
And I haven’t even gotten to my point yet.
But maybe all of this is my point.
Or maybe there isn’t a point at all.
OOOOOOH
Getting freaky?
Getting wise?
Lawl.
Such a Daddy’s Girl.
Maybe not.
I’m just kidding.
There’s points to this.
A couple, actually.
First.
Taylor doesn’t know who she is.
But I just pointed out a bunch of stuff.
That, ladies and gentlemen.
Right above?
Up there
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Is Taylor.
The one and only.
Kay?
Kay.
Potassium.
Second.
You can’t blame what happened on you’re mental issues.
Yes, they may have taken a part in this.
And I understand that.
But you need to realize this.
You fucked up.
You hurt your friends.
And whether you apologize or not,
It really isn’t up to me.
But understand.
You hurt people.
You hurt me.
Third.
No matter what happens.
No matter what you say.
How you think.
How you act.
What you do.
We’re friends.
Maybe best friends.
Maybe not.
But we’re friends.
We may not sit with each other.
We may not talk 24/7.
We may not do sleepovers every weekend.
But we’re friends.
That will never change.
We’ve still got MSN.
The allnighters.
Mibba.
The stories.
We’ve still got each other.
Potassium?
Forth.
We all fuck up.
We all hurt our friends.
We all hurt.
Period.
It’s what makes us human.
Pain is what makes us human.
We all get depressed.
We all get angry.
We all make mistakes.
Nobody deserves to die.
Nobody should remove themselves from Earth.
Whether religion has anything to do with it,
‘God taking you when it’s time’
Or just going out naturally.
When you get old and die.
However you look at it.
You shouldn’t take your life into your own hands and just die.
Death is scary.
I don’t see the glamour in death.
I mean, what happens if there isn’t anything after life?
I believe there is.
But what if there isn’t?
What if you’re gone.
Gone.
It’s scary.
I don’t see why you would want this.
Why anybody would.
I’m living my life.
I just wrote love again.
And I’m happy.
I get hurt.
And there’s times when I just want out.
But I would never kill myself.
No matter what.
Because there is so much to live for.
So much.
You can’t die.
Not yet.
Okay?
So fucking quit it.
Stop hurting yourself.
Take the knife.
Or Razor.
Or whatever the fuck you’re using.
Get up.
And throw it out the window.
Now.
Stop reading.
Stop.
I’m dead serious.
Stop reading this and do it.
Go throw them out the window.
Now.
…
…
…
…
Kay?
Potassium?
Good.
And your wrists.
Or thighs.
Or wherever they are.
Band-aids.
ASAP.
Go do it.
Now.
…
…
…
…
Kay?
Kay.
Now.
Go get that permanent marker.
Sitting in that plastic pencil-holder thing.
The one in your computer room.
On the desk.
Get a permanent marker.
Preferably black.
Just because I like black.
But if not, get the red or green one.
And draw me again.
Okay?
Because you’ve already killed me once.
But that lasted 27 days.
Didn’t it?
Maybe that wasn’t totally me.
Obviously it wasn’t.
But I like to think that helped a bit.
And a bit of help is better than none.
Right?
Okay.
So go do that.
27 days?
Double it.
Fucking triple it.
Or, better yet,
Permanent?
Start now.
Draw me with permanent marker.
And stop hurting yourself.
Okay?
I’m begging you.
I am truly begging you.
Stop.
Because you’re beautiful.
You aren’t stupid.
You aren’t ugly.
You aren’t weird.
You’re gorgeous.
You’re hilarious.
And a fun best friend.
You’re prefect.
In your own way.
You’re prefect.

They say nobody is perfect.
But the way I look at it,
Everybody is perfect.
And there is no such that as imperfection.
-Kelli Nicole