To Somebody Who Will Never Be Me

So you’ve made your choice. And I really don’t care.
You finally figured it out. You want everybody to adore you in that kind of fake, sycophantic high school kind of way? Then I’m NOT the person you take along for the ride. You desperately cared and I really didn’t. So the only thing to do was to sprinkle a little memory dust with possible side effects of denial and wave goodbye in that arrogant anglophile way of yours. So completely high school.
Except that this actually was high school, so I really shouldn’t be all that surprised. It shouldn’t shock me that the smile on your face I always thought just looked fake actually was fake. It shouldn’t shock me that your jokes about who really did most of the work were really too genuine snide remarks to try and cut me down. And it shouldn’t shock me that suddenly I realized—and it appears I was the last person to see this—that what everyone else thought about you was right. Except that by the time this epiphany hit me, nobody thought it about you anymore. At least not to your face.
These were thoughts I actually defended once upon an adolescent idiocy. “She’s weird” was countered with, “No, she’s quirky and funny.” “Everything about her is annoying,” and all I could say was “you don’t know her at all, so you can’t say anything.” These were actual things people said about you, and actual things I (at the time) honestly responded with. I really believed all this. We always laughed together. And I thought this was the real “us.”
Funny though, because it took us going halfway across the world on a trip we planned together for something to rot back home. You acted like you didn’t know me, you refused to make eye contact with me, and suddenly I was just the girl you went to school with.
Forget that we just spent two years with people comparing us to the Bobsey twins.
Forget that our Halloween costumes, our turns as each other, were hits.
Forget that the one moment I shined in that slimy social hellhole of cliques and reputations was a moment I shared with you.
This isn’t sentimentality. This is not nostalgia, and I want none of it back. But people should know that it was one thing to ignore me, but it was quite another to actively take pot shots at me. Nobody tries to make me look stupid without looking like an idiot herself. You may have everyone pretending to be your friend now, but remember sweetie that I’ll always have the last word. See, if I ever have to see you again, you will finally understand that if you think it’s okay to be rude and treat me that way in front of other people, I will also think it’s okay to embarrass you in front of other people because of it. And that’s a weird thought only because I don’t know if I want to see you again. I don’t because life is too short to spend another minute with you on this planet. But I kind of do just so you can stare at the result of your petty, pathetic little games. But you can’t help it. You’re just a petty, pathetic little person.
Will I be any worse for the wear? No.
Will I be better than you (still?!)? Absolutely.
And you’ll hate that because that’s precisely why you started tangling with me in the first place. It took me a long time of everybody (and honey, I mean everybody) telling me this for me to finally see it was true. I was always better than you and you knew it. I got everything I wanted, that you wanted too, but without all the extra help along the way. I got all the things that were supposed to be reserved for people like you, the higher tier of whatever the fuck you think society is. I got to be low brow and still enjoy a finer experience abroad. That trip halfway across the world was supposed to be yours, and you still hate that, guess what, I have those memories now too. And great ones. I made friends that were better to me and got closer to me in a month than you did in three years, and a wonderful boy who fell in love with me. And all you did was come home with a bitter taste in your mouth.
And 18 months later…I’m happy. I’m happy with who I am, where I’ve been, and what I’m doing. And I’m happy that we’re not friends. I’m happy that while I get to be exactly who I am—and people love me for it by the way—you still get your kicks out of being something that you’re not, and will never be. Oh, you have a few things to your credit. You have your books and your wit and your righteous pride to keep you warm at night.
But you’re still arrogant. You’re still a snob. You’re still not British. You’re still not aware that some words are pronounced certain ways in the United States. You’re still not cognizant of the fact that your conceited, prissy little act is not cute.
And I’m doing damn well.