Monday, July 4, 2011

That friend.

We all have that friend. Well, most of us do.

That friend you'd meet when you are way into the prime of your adventurous streak.
That friend whose ass you had to cover each time they screwed up.
That friend who'd get suspended with you back in school for two weeks;
and then some more.
That friend who'd be a proud member of your back bench-er association.
That friend who'd go pick up a fight with the girl who called you names.
That friend who'd run away from home and live with you.
That friend whose mother trusts you to be the one to put some sense into them.
That friend who'd be an excited little blob when you make them bunk school for the first time.
That friend who'd write you love chits for no reason.
That friend who'd always make you want to go out of your way to protect them.
That friend who'd take a million pictures with you, without occasion.
That friend who'd be part of the 'people-you-can-never-speak-to' clan before they became That Friend.
That friend who'd spend all their summer evenings talking to you.
That friend who'd always pretend to be equally concerned when you'd fret over your potential balding.
That friend who'd often seem like an extension of yourself;
an unhygienic extension. But an extension nevertheless.

That friend with whom you just stop having anything in common with after a point.
That friend with whom the lack of commonality seizes to bother after a point.

We all have that friend. Well, most of us do.
That Friend who picked out the Red for you.