Dear Friend

Sometimes, I consider you my best friend. Sometimes I don’t. You know why? Because you bring me joy and pain. And also boredom. Although the confusing thing about you is that when I’m happy around you, I’m happy to the degree of ecstasy; and when I’m sad around you, I’m sad to the degree of devastation. This is why sometimes I don’t consider you my best friend. Because best friends don’t do that. Heck, friends don’t do that. So I beg of you, please, please make up your mind if you want to make me happy or sad. Not both. I cannot handle the confusion if you juggle both.

This is how I outline our friendship: whenever you come around, I always feel so excited and happy towards your arrival, and I always think up of many, many plans to spend with you when the time comes. But somehow, I don’t know how, these plans always never work. Because of you. Don’t ask me why, ask yourself. You’re the cause of all these problems. And so with the failure of these plans, comes distaste and weariness. You wear me out, to the extent that I wished you were never born. Finally, comes the worse stage of all: your departure. You always leave at the wrong times, at the worst times. You don’t give a rat’s ass, do you, always leaving me like that without even thinking of the dire consequences your horrible actions inflict upon me? You call yourself a friend? Yes, you do exhaust and bore me sometimes but I thought you were my friend! Once again, let me repeat, friends don’t do that. So now you’re going to leave me all alone, in this barren, abominable land again?

The sad thing of this all is, despite the countless times you have hurt me (more than the times you have made me happy, in fact) I still turn to you. I still anticipate your arrival every single time. And I wait myself silly like a naive little child, even though I know you’re always going to leave me in the end. Yes, these wounds are self-inflicted, but you still don’t give a rat’s ass, do you?

Goodbye, holidays.

Not that sincerely,
Michelle.

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Author: Michelle Teoh

21-year-old cynical Asian, book enthusiast and purveyor of fine sarcasm.

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