Dancing on my own.

I always thought it was better to have friends who were only just okay than to not have friends at all or at least, too few friends to have a decent-sized party. I used to think (and on bad days, sometimes still do think) that if my phone isn’t making non-stop sparkle and cricket noises (my SMS/BBM tones), it means that no one cares about me. I used to believe that if you don’t have anything nice to say, you shouldn’t say anything at all.

I don’t think any of that’s true anymore. 

I just think that if you don’t have anything nice to say, say it to everyone but the person you don’t have anything nice to say about. Or say it vaguely on Twitter with some obscure hashtag that invites people to inquire. 

I think a lot of girls - or maybe it’s just me and if so, that’s unfortunate - have expendable friendships; the type of girl friends who love and obsess over the people right in front of them and forget the rest exist. I can’t even count the number of “I miss you, let’s hang out soon” friends I have acquired throughout my life and sometimes, when I’m feeling down enough, the fact that they’re willing to put up the front is all I need to feel like someone will be there if I get hit by another Purolator truck. Even if they shit talk me behind my back, accuse me of stealing from them and/or try to sleep with my boyfriend afterwards.

I know a lot of girls think about things like which girl friends they want to have in their wedding party. I often think about the fact that with the exception of a few core girl friends - and I do mean quite few - that it seems like I can only keep friends around for as long as I pretend we’re closer than we are.

It kills me to see so many girls actively carrying on friendships with people they talk about behind their backs. But I guess that’s the difference between most girls and myself… 

I just sometimes wish I had more people to confide in about things like being molested at the spa.

Oh didn’t I mention? 

I had what I can only imagine must have been the world’s worst massage last Friday morning. After a week of absolute hell, I woke up refreshed, ate breakfast on my roof [which is more like a mini-patio than a life-threatening danger], put my hair in a desperately-trying-to-be-low-maintenance pony tail, and headed for Stillwater Spa. Having never been to a spa before and being 25, I felt like I had to over compensate by looking like I was a seasoned Spa-pro, which obviously just resulted in me almost walking into the men’s change area and asking just about every staff member where I was supposed to go next.

Fuckkkkkk, I hate being fancy. It wasn’t unlike that time in New York when my salad came served ON the head it grew on.. in the fields. Or, wherever lettuce grows, if not in fields.

Thankfully for me, my Massage Therapist mistook me for a common whore and gave me a massage I’m sure most people would have to pay extra for. Lucky me. Maybe I passed out during the part where he asked if he could massage my ass and tightly clenched inner thighs for 20 minutes? And the part where I consented to him freely staring at my vag while he massaged the front of my legs. 

Except no. I didn’t shave in preparation for an audience. And also because even if I was single, he’s not even close to the type of person I would touch with a 16 foot pole. Wearing rubber gloves.

I just kind of miss the closeness of good friends that I could plot the take-down of the Stillwater Spa with, and who would burn the evidence afterwards.

But sometimes, I’ll take what I can get♥ Even if that means I have to do the pursuing for a while.