Sunday Correspondence: A Letter To A Bad Friend

Kate Writes:

Dear Bad Friend,

I can remember the first time we met. You were very mysterious and charming and, like any new friendship, you captured my interest with a force I found myself unable to control. I know that sometimes I can come on a little strong, but I think there is a pretty definite line between ignoring a crazy person and ignoring someone who just wants to know if you’d like to catch up for a drink. And I would like to think I am the latter.

Time and time again you have let me down. I remember when we had planned to go away for the weekend. I was so excited that I baked biscuits for the trip but, the night before I was to pick you up, I messaged you to see if there was anything specific I needed to bring. It was as though we had never spoken about the trip, you had forgotten all about it and had made plans to see other people. And while you apologised profusely for letting me down, it didn’t stop that little niggling thought in the back of my mind that asked, ‘why do I even bother?’ and, ‘you don’t really want to be my friend so why do I still want to be yours?’

When we first started this ‘frelationship’ you were wonderful. You sucked me in with stories of your life and what you hoped to accomplish. I felt like I could really be myself around you and wondered if you felt the same.

You see, Bad Friend, that is the very worst thing about this whole situation. You are such a bad friend that it makes me want to be your friend even more. It’s like being attracted to the ‘bad boy’ and hoping that you’ll eventually be able to change their horrible ways with your wholesome and positive outlook. But alas, I fear there is nothing to be done for you. You’re not the first Bad Friend I’ve encountered; not by a long shot. This in itself makes me think I am a masochist who loves being ignored and treated badly. But I don’t, Bad Friend! In fact, I bloody hate it when you don’t return my messages or call me on my birthday! You don’t even offer an excuse for your poor behaviour and that makes the way you behave even more infuriating. You never ask me how I’m feeling or how my life is. I think you should know by now that if I’m going through a major life crisis, I’m not going to offer that information freely!

You need to learn to be more attentive to the needs of the people who love you. I’d really appreciate it if you would be the one to message or call first. I know I am a fairly confident person, Bad Friend, but just once I would like you to organise to see me…and be excited about it! I feel like I’m stuck in that terrible movie ‘He’s Just Not That Into You’ and I should cut my losses and move on. You and your treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen ways won’t last forever. I will eventually lose interest in you, Bad Friend…and I think that would be a terrible thing because I honestly believe you are a great person and would feel terrible if we parted ways.

I’m sorry if I’m the one at fault here but I really don’t think I’ve done anything out of the ordinary. I treat you exactly the same as all my other friends. The only difference is that you don’t reciprocate the way my other friends do. Yes, that’s right…it’s not me, it’s you! The things you do (or should I say DON’T do) are noticeable to me in a way that you always seem to have my attention. And it isn’t always a good thing.

All I’m asking for is a little bit of common courtesy. I’m not your parent, I shouldn’t have to tell you how to behave. I wish I could flick a switch and you would turn into the good friend I know you can be. I’m going to give you one more chance, Bad Friend. And then I’m going to tell you I’ve given up. You take up too much of my time for such little, or worse, no reward. I want to be able to feel happy when we’re together, not worried about whether or not I’m ever going to hear from you again.

There should be a club for people like you so that people like me never run into you and waste their lives trying for nothing. It would save so much time and heartbreak. You can hang out with people of your own kind. I’m sure you’d enjoy all the one-sided conversations that go on forever and have no point. And you’d never have to worry about calling anyone back because nobody would care enough about you to give you their phone number.

Throw me bone, Bad Friend…I’m not asking for the world, truly.

Sincerely,

Kate Stark.

Lauren Writes:

Dear Bad Friend,

You’ve been around for a long time. You’ve taken shape in various incarnations over the years, popping up as one acquaintance or another, but have always been recognisable with your trademark snickering and a self esteem bruising blow.

We’ve had such fun at times, Bad Friend, that it has been hard to recognise you for who you are in the beginning. You and I have eaten together, listened to music and watched movies, giggled over crushes and taken up each other’s causes. We’ve talked on the phone, we’ve IMed and we’ve emailed, we’ve shared everything down to the tiniest of details. That’s the way it always starts; with me smitten with your charm and delighted with the friendship you offer, and sometimes the good times seem to roll on and on.

But then, all of a sudden, you decide I’m not good enough to be your friend anymore. In your mind I cross, for some reason or another, over that line; that very thin and flimsy divide between the people you think are cool and the people you think aren’t. Perhaps I choose to wear the wrong type of clothing, perhaps I unknowingly snub you in some way, perhaps you feel threatened by or uncomfortable with some part of my character. Who knows? I, at least, am always left guessing.

Luckily for me, there have been far more versions of Good Friends, more Caring Friends and Supportive Friends, than there have been of you, Bad Friend, in my life. I’ve never had too hard a time picking myself up and dusting myself off after the whirlwind of your visits. There have been times when you have rubbed off on me, and turned me into a Bad Friend who continually whinges and pities themselves after your inevitable hurtful departure, but luckily my friend repertoire holds many of the Patient Friend variety, and I (hopefully quickly) work myself out of this phase.

You’ve taught me a bit about self respect, Bad Friend, but I’m not going to go all Christina Aguelira and thank you for the lesson, because I don’t think the way you taught it was at all necessary. I have grown into an adult who values my time enough to not waste it on the likes of you, one with a keen eye to sort between the stayers and the more fickle minded.

Bad Friend, I’ve made the decision to never make acquaintance with you again. I know that you are unpredictable and like to hide in the most unseeming of characters, but I will be trying my best. Do us both a favour and stay away?

Sincerely,

Lauren

Sunday Correspondence: A Letter To Swearing

Special Guest Writer Kate Says: 

Dear Swearing,

I don’t need you in my life. There, I said it and it’s true! The last time I said the ‘F’ word I was an angst-ridden 16-year-old and I felt so dirty afterwards that I vowed never to repeat it again…ever! Unlike my peers, I don’t find an emotional outlet by screaming filthy words in public (or in private for that matter). Needless to say, the ‘C’ word has never passed my lips. Yes, it’s true, I have been known to throw around a couple of humpty-dumpties, such as ‘shit’ and ‘bloody’ in my time, but never in front of the elderly or children and to be honest, hardly ever in front of my friends.

If I am too upset to string a sentence together, I will not lower my intelligence level by filling in the blanks with F-bombs. Instead I will walk away from the situation, clear my head and come back with a constructive response. But you see, the problem is, Swearing, you’re not just there in the moments of emotional turmoil. You’re EVERYWHERE! You’re there in the places and moments I least expect. Surprising me at every turn. You’re on the lips of men who have had too much to drink and think they’re hilarious. You’re squatting in the brains of mothers who are at the end of their tether in the supermarket aisles. Children use you freely in the playground. You’ve even set up shop in my friend’s throats, waiting for the most inappropriate opportunity to strike.

Hearing my family swear is like watching a male-identified transsexual give birth, it’s awkward and you wonder if you’ll ever be the same afterwards.

My last run-in with you involved a group of primary school aged boys running around the swimming room changing rooms. They were all naked with one boy telling the others in no uncertain terms what he was going to do with his (and I quote) “F-ing big, black cock!” …this coming from the mouth of a scrawny, ginger-haired, Scottish child. No, Swearing, I don’t know where his parents were but let’s hope they would have been just, if not more, appalled by his outburst.

I’m not going to lie anymore Swearing. You’re totally offensive to me and there’s nothing you can do to stop me from feeling this way…unless it involves expanding the vocabulary of every man, woman and child to a point where they will be able to express themselves without you.

Your nemesis,

Kate Stark.

Lauren Says:

Dear Swearing,

I was ten when I met your first, before that you’d just been a blurry familiarity, whizzing by on late night tv shows I wasn’t meant to watch and falling from the lips of adults who had slipped up and then made an ungainly attempt at covering it up.

At ten, you were the coolest thing to come around. Cooler, even, than making it on to the newly formed dance squad, or playing handball at lunchtime. All of a sudden all the tykes at school were whipping out strings of expletives with the epic enthusiasm and embarrassing clumsiness. I refrained, partly because being cool, no matter how much I cursed, was probably beyond me (that said I did make it on to the dance squad the year after that, and my handball skills are nothing short of awesome) and partly because I was sure my mum had super spies hidden in the playground who would report back to her on the foulness of my language.

High school came and you upped your level. There were new words and they certainly weren’t all limited to four letters. Anatomical references melded their way in and soon things got very offensive, but also, to our young minds, very hilarious. I have to say I slipped in high school, the mild tongued lass I had been taking on the language she thought made her seem more adult. I was the absolute queen of knowing my timing though, never once bringing out the bad words in front of parents, teachers, the elderly or the young. Swearing was a peer thing more than a part of myself.

Now I’m an adult, I have to say I can appreciate a well timed curse or a dirty worded joke. I don’t have the mouth of a sailor, no sir, but there are times when a swear word here or there in movies, books or conversation might stir my amusement. It has to be creative though, if our frankly pretty adequate language is to be bastardised then thought needs to be put into it.

Swearing, I don’t think we’ll ever become close friends, you and I. We will never be effortless together, just stilted and awkward like two peas of very different kinds stuck in the same pod, and that’s not the way it’s meant to be. I like you sometimes, you make me laugh, but there are times when you are very hurtful and down right crude. I’d like to see you used more sparingly, though I fear sounding like the most boring old biddy when I say this, you’re becoming too much a part of the vernacular. I say it for you benefit as well, think of the impact you could have, the laughs you could get or the seriousness you could inspire if you picked your moments wisely.

Swearing, I hope to hear from you far less often in future.

Not yours,

Lauren