My best friend is prettier than me
I guess that my best friend is pretty. I know that, but she's not stop your heart gorgeous, she's not the stuff of super-models, she's just your average good looking woman. But men adore her, sadly never for her mind or her sense of humor, which she has both of. They never ask her for her opinions on politics or books or even music, all of which she has interests in. They just want to fuck her!
It wouldn't bother me, this is not about petty jealousy, or fucked up insecure "what-about-me" bullshit. I love her, I see her beauty more clearly than any of these losers that make their sad pathetic attempts for her attention. What pisses me off, is that they for some reason feel that it's ok to go through me to get to her. They ask me if "my hot friend" is seeing anyone. They want to know what they can do to get her to hang out with them, en-route to a party they will forgo fun because she will not be attending. Many have risked and annhilated friendships with me, just for one night of infidelity with her.
The fault is not purely with these insignificant men, it absolutely lies with her. She attracts them, like mosquitoes to a perfumed neck. They flutter and she loves it. She cheats on her fiance, one of many in a long line of men who have proposed within hours, if not minutes of knowing her, for one night of attention. She must have their attention, she craves it, she commands it.
Why? I ask myself this question every Friday night as I watch the dance of misfits that parade for her. Rich men stalk her, poor men buy her diamonds, stupid men write her poetry and smart men become wasted drunks, all just to be by her side. And through it all, it's obvious to us both, how shallow it all is.
She knows that she has never truly been in love and is painfully aware that she has never truly been loved back. We have spent countless hours discussing father issues, mother issues, good touch bad touch, and all the events in one's life that make up who we are. She knows that she is approached because she is pretty, and she knows that her relationships fail, because ultimately she has nothing in common with her tattooed punk-rock boyfriend, or the junkie-still-in a-relationship-teen-dad, or even the recent straight edge self-employed friend of one of her formers.
She plays the chamelion and feigns interest in what they like and becomes pierced and tattooed, interested in time with baby, or a fan of old school punk rock. She buys expensive cars and toys and lives in a world of self fulfillment based on the complaint that her boyfriend doesn't love her enough. When the truth is, she doesn't even know who she is how could someone love an empty vessel filled only occasionally with what she thinks will keep them interested.
And now we get to the true root of the problem. When she is getting hit on, I know her, I know what she has to offer. I know that this will only lead to another empty conversation and another phone call where I am forced to listen to the details of her infidelity or her lies about her steadfast devotion to her current. I know that her insecurities are telling her that this is good, this liquor breathed lover will fill her, will somehow feed her hunger. This one will be different. This may be the one, the excitement, the truth, the love, all waiting just one drunken romp away.
But I know what they don't, because he is not new. He is the same man all the time. Whether he is old or young, rich or poor. I have watched them all. I am her memory and his worst nightmare. Because in the morning when she needs to talk, I may not have been the most beautiful girl at the bar, but I am the smartest one on the phone.