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April
7 — Thank You for Being a Friend
Since
she can’t say it, I’m doing it for her…
I'm
failing out of school, or, at least, my thesis isn’t going the way
I wanted it to. It’s taking far more time, energy and resources
than I seem to have these days. On top of that, my internship is up
because the department has ‘run out of funding for [my]
position’, whatever the hell that means.
Being
without money, while trying to finish this degree, means a few
things will change:
1)
I will go broke
2)
I will be evicted from my apartment
3)
I will have to either move back home to my Mom or
4)
I will have to move four hours away from school to live with my
brother
So,
my dearest friend, what does this mean? It means I’m stressed out.
I’m severely, completely, emotionally, mentally, physically
stressed out. I need you to be my friend. I need you to
understand. I need you to listen. I need you to hear me. I need you
to know that and not ignore me when I write and tell you these
things. I need you not to gloss over these very real problems with
your inane babbling about how great your miserable bastard of a
husband is and how much everyone must obviously want him. What’s
worse is, I can’t decide if he’s just a miserable bastard or if
you’re the one that drove him to it.
But
more to the point: I need you to (and, this one is important…if you
get nothing else, get this, for the LOVE of GOD, get this):
STOP!
For the last time, STOP! planning a vacation to come stay with me,
expecting me to host, feed, entertain and coddle you for 2 weeks
during the middle of one of the biggest crises I’ve ever faced!
Or, worse yet, expecting me to fly to visit you when what little I
have I’ll need for rent and travel to job interviews.
How
much more plainly can I state this? I tried a nice letter…you
wrote back, “Don’t let it stop you coming to visit me.” With
what money? I might be fucking evicted!
And,
let’s not forget, this home you want me to visit so badly with
funds I do not have is infested with animals and mold. Not to
mention owning more weird knick-knacks than the entire object
d’art collection at the Louvre, all packed into an
upstairs/downstairs. Isn’t there a statute of limitations on the
number of newspapers you can have shoved into one room? I think
somewhere around the 5,000 mark, you should just give over and have
city government proclaim the room an official garbage depository.
The
worst of it is not being able to tell you this, or have you
understand, or even listen to me. It’s like if you’re talking, I
no longer exist. If I have a problem, there is no problem. The only
thing that exists is your need to escape your life by invading mine.
Thanks
for being such a great friend!
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