You know, to this day I am not really sure if I have ever really had something that could be confused for a friend. Not even an inanimate object. I don’t mean inanimate like Warcraft, cause that’s pretty much my only comparison to salvation. I mean like a stuffed bear that comforts me, or, heaven forbid, an actual human that enjoyed my company. My mom used to force me into this latch key program when I was in high school. If you are not familiar with the term “latch key,” it pretty much means a place to send your kids when you don’t want them coming home after school. On the rare occasion, someone would be forced to pair with me in order to meet the minimum participation requirements for some menial juvenile game. Mind you, the kids in this program were several years younger than me, so conversations about My Little Pony were not what you would call exciting. To this day I have not seen a single episode.
I’ll tell you what though, age is one thing you protect with every ounce of energy in your body when you get picked on by kids that are a third your age younger than you. No self respecting 17 year old wants to tell anyone they were beat up by a 12 year old. I definitely couldn’t fight back since the paralyzing fear of prison kept me from lashing out at anyone. Oh, if only I understood the concept of prosecuting a minor back then. Revenge is one of those things I genuinely feel I missed out on, and not getting it may be the one regret that outweighs the regret of falling for this idiotic ruse in the first place.
It’s sad to think that in all these years, the closest thing to a friend I have ever had was a cardboard cutout of LeVar Burton, also known as Geordi LaForge, chief engineer on the U.S.S Enterprise. All those vampire movies depict well read immortal dukes and zillions of volumes of epic lore stacked into mile long halls of enchanted libraries. I, on the other hand, am a walking index of Star Trek knowledge. A praiseworthy attribute, to be sure. Just not one you can use in a day to day existence. Believe me, I have tried to impress people who claim to be girls in chat rooms with my mastery of the Vulcan language, but they didn’t seem to be impressed. I have won just about every online Star Trek trivia game I have ever played, but eventually people refused to play with me and I was too proud to create a new account and abandon my incredible stats. In the end, my only “wealth” turned out to be absent of real worth. Oh, and in case you were wondering how I would answer the age old “Kirk or Picard” question, I would say that Picard is a better captain, but I would rather be Kirk.
I had always wondered if having an actual living friend would be a good thing. I’ve watched enough television to imagine what a real friendship would be like. In my best fantasies, I still have a hard time believing there wouldn’t be at least one outburst. All it takes is one and the next thing I know, the FBI is breaking down my door and Mulder and Scully have a real life autopsy to perform over and over again until they grow tired of dealing with my fat.
There’s no way to have a friendship that was real, and ignorant of my condition. But how long do they have to be my friend before I tell them? Would they believe me? Would they tell? Would the people they tell believe the story? There’s no safe way to know. As I grow older, I sink further into the notion that it is best to avoid other people, and that the concept of a friend is more accurately defined as a guaranteed way to die. Or at least a secret cryogenics lab that could store me until there is a way out of this horrible deal. Regrettably, the quality of life descends yet another peg on the totem pole when you realize that the prospect of death is legitimately more appealing than the prospect of resuming your life in the condition you are currently in.