Juvenile

Today's post is inspired by a friend request I recently received on Facebook. For my friends who've heard this story for years, here it is again in writing. I gleefully rubbed my hands together as I wrote it and know that is beyond childish. But I still feel great getting it off my chest. The last sentence is not true, but I was struck by a moment of inspiration.
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Dear Dorea,

I am stunned to see your friend request on Facebook. You must have been bored, or your finger must have slipped not thinking about the past. In case you forgot what exactly happened, let me refresh your memory. For mine is long and full of excruciating detail.

At 21, I was young, dumb and so excited to see my best friend from middle school, my pen pal who faithfully wrote me as I transitioned through high school and college. I took that flight down to Dallas for a short weekend, looking forward only to being with my friend again. Everything was going swimmingly. We ate good food, went to the arcade and one morning I woke up early and cleaned your parents' kitchen counters. I was bored.

On my unplanned last night in Dallas, you took me to meet up with your friends, warning me in hushed tones as we drove there, that we were going to "the ghetto." I remember laughing to myself, thinking, this looks exactly where I live and this neighborhood looks like my friends' neighborhoods back home. I was well prepared for "the ghetto." We did what I do with my own friends, pre-party and hang out before going to the club. I still remember the bathroom at your friend's house, it was a pull-string flush.

You took me to an underage club and I made small talk with the DJs who were from Wichita. Kansas! My peeps! Your friends danced with me all night. They flirted with me non-stop and asked if I was moving down to Dallas. I don't blame them. I was, and still am, a crazy fun person. One friend in particular, your crush at the time, was especially paying a lot of attention to me. You had told me that you guys were just friends, how was I supposed to know that you were totally in love with him? The night ended with you secretly fuming. I was too drunk to notice, really.

When we finally left the club, way past your curfew, in downtown Dallas, without your car, gun shots rang out. Everyone hit the ground as I stood there like a dumbass, because I didn't know any better. Turns out the girl who drove us to the club wasn't very well-liked by someone. All four of her car tires, her daddy's new Honda, were slashed. She cried buckets. We were stranded.

So being the problem solver I am, I went back inside to find out if those Wichita DJs would give us a ride. Your crush followed me. You are even more mad now, since he left you alone out there with all your other friends. I was not successful in getting us a ride, but I knew we had to get back to your car. I really didn't want your parents to flip out. While slashed-tire girl was crying, I asked your friends to give us a ride back first and thankfully they did. Even after the crazy night, we were all still really having a good time and they were asking me if I was coming back to visit. Alas, no.

You seethed the whole way home. Not telling me why you were mad and not speaking to me. During the ride, I had to go to the bathroom really bad, but you wouldn't stop until I threatened to pee in the back of your car. You, delightful as always, stopped at a truck rest stop. There, in the bushes, between the semis, I dropped trou and relieved myself while you and your crush sat in the car. After we left him off, I finally asked you what was wrong and you let me have it. I should have known better. I shouldn't have danced with the man you loved so deeply. I was such a bitch. You hated me. Blah, blah, blah.

Your youthful insecurity and jealousy made you so mad, you kicked me out of your house that instant, in the middle of the night. I had no money, no where else to go and my flight wasn't leaving until the following night, but you didn't care. You wanted me out, out, out! Now, is that any way for a pastor's daughter to act? Surprisingly, that stunned me the most, how un-Christian you were behaving.

I'm no wilting flower, so I said, fuck you, threw my things into my small carry-on and started WALKING out of your suburban neighborhood out in the middle of nowhere. There I was, in my fuzzy, hot pink crop top club shirt, white pants and heels, rolling my carry-on on the sidewalk, crying my eyes out. I had no money, save the money I needed to change my flight plan, and no idea how I was actually getting to the airport. Luckily, a kind and gracious man stopped by in his white cowboy hat and white pick up truck. My white knight! He took me to the airport and I will forever be so thankful that he was sent to me to give me a ride and not for a rape and kidnapping.

After I changed my flight, I sat at the airport, bawling. Remember our giant useless cell phones back then? I used it to call my equally useless boyfriend at the time who did not answer. Even though you ended being a horrible, horrible friend, I still had good ones back home. Beth promised to pick me up.

When I finally got onto the plane, I was a mess. So fucked up that I passed out in the hall on the way to the bathroom. The flight attendant held my hand the whole time and I was in and out of consciousness. I was delirious and met by an ambulance and police when we arrived back in Kansas City. Beth was freaking out and crying as she followed me to the hospital. They told me I could die if I didn't go to the emergency room.

Afraid of imminent death, I took that ambulance and got tested. They even gave me a rectal exam. For years, I've told this story over and over and in as much detail, but I never realized WHY they gave me a rectal exam. My naivety strikes again. Coming from a Dallas flight, they thought I was a drug mule and had a balloon of cocaine up my butt. "But" hah! Fooled them, I was only dehydrated and emotionally and physically stressed from my night out of drinking and crying. I paid for that hospital bill for three years, you know. Unlike you, who did not live in the ghetto, I didn't have health insurance.

I called you when I finally made it home to tell you how awful it was. You didn't give a shit. You hung up on me and never spoke to me again. And I always end the story the same, "She was the worst friend ever."

SO NOW YOU WANT TO BE FRIENDS ON FACEBOOK? Are you out of your freaking mind? What exactly do you want to know about my life more than 14 years later? That I'm happily married, have a great life with the most amazing friends? Done, you know now. But friends, even as shallowly as on Facebook? I. Don't. Think. So. Don't get me wrong, I've moved on and have had a wonderful story to tell over the years, but we cannot be friends.

I hope Jesus forgave you because I didn't.