I met Amelia in grade 9. We had a class together and we
became friends, the way you do in high school.
We became such good friends because we’d both decided to
start doing drugs very heavily a little while before we met.
Neither of our parents really cared what we did-which sounds
cool but was actually horrible because Amelia and I craved structure and
discipline.
We spent most of our time high on drugs so I don’t actually
remember that much about our friendship. I do, however, remember the time we
went to New York together. Amelia’s older sister had an apartment in a housing
project out there and we visited her one weekend.
The Friday night, Amelia and I were standing on the fire
escape, high as usual, and we kissed, passionately, because of course due to
all the homosexual propaganda we’d been fed in the nineties we didn’t know what
orientation we were. After we kissed, we just stood there for a moment, then
the black guys who lived above Amelia’s sister climbed down their fire escape
onto ours and beat us up.
After about a year, Amelia and I drifted apart. She started
to get more into demolition durbies and I started to get more into
self-loathing.
I see Amelia once a year, when I go to visit her grave.
Let’s just say she never lost her interest in drugs and she died in a gutter
some years ago, I can’t remember when exactly.
That’s another thing. People constantly tell me all the
drugs I did back when I was friends with Amelia affected my brain in quite an
adverse way. As far as I’m concerned, I can still count to one and that’s all
that matters.
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