Sometimes I’m convinced that the two of us were born were born with this intimate knowledge of one another, these often bizarre inside jokes. Were we merely saving them like Monopoly money? Waiting until our paths crossed to pool our assets, cashing in on Boardwalk and Park Place before proceeding to take over the world? Maybe. Maybe not. Perhaps it was simply fate.
Fate. It’s not a we’re-going-to-be-together-forever, gag-me-with-a-spoon-or-better-yet-I’ll just-swallow-the-poison-and-die-for-you-now, kind of deal… at least not in my mind. More like we go through life and meet the people we were destined to meet along the way. Some are merely shadows passing in the night. Others grow with us for a time and eventually drift away on a new journey, which we were never meant to follow. And finally… if we’re really lucky, we’ll meet a few who will know us and love us despite the flaws, the jagged pieces, our imperfections.
My relationship with (Not Fug or Douchey) Stalin/Monopoly mob boss is a relationship I rarely define. There’s no real need. Other people seem more interested in labeling it than I am. Best friend conjures up images of friendship necklaces passed between schoolgirls. Then again, I can see one of us pulling something like that solely for a reaction and a laugh. It’s beautifully naked, intimate… raw… or as some have defined it, lacking boundaries. Based on traditional and acceptable social schemas, they’re right; it does in many ways. If you asked us, we’d likely tell you it’s simply honest; that the honesty is what made us close.
As human beings we crave closeness. We chase it, hunt it, yearn for it. Nearly every story in life is a love story. Unrequited, platonic, romantic, whatever; they’re love stories all the same. And yet we’ve created a culture of publicly indifference, emotional cripples will run from anything having the potential to expose even the slightest vulnerability. We save the emotion, the sentiment, the I Love Yous for illness, tragedy and death… well… that’s assuming we choose to use the word love at all.
If we do, you can be sure we’ll clarify; define our love by type. We’ll draft check-boxes, flowcharts, even a forty-five minute power point presentation… anything to offer us an out and/or little accountability as possible in the event our declaration spawns a nuclear meltdown. No wonder we wait for death; there’s less room for a fatal error.
There’s this quote in Heathers (aka one of the best black comedies/80s films of all time) where Mark Carlton’s character proclaims, I LOVE MY DEAD GAY SON! It was a great scene, one of my favorites. Still, it hadn’t been one I’d thought about until Stalin referenced it this morning. It was hilarious. It didn’t get weird. No one is over-analyzing, desperately scanning the fine print, wishing for death, or all the above. Between tears of laughter, exhaustion, and a list of emotion that could easily take up the next three pages, my only thought as I sat in my car, Breathe Me having just decided to haunt the speakers, was simply, Fuck, I really needed that.