I call her Angie. She comes “home” when I step outside my being, and gain a high from being alone. Angie and I, we’re like twins. We’ve done it all. We’ve talk about how it would be pretty dope to go bungee jumping. She shares a smile with me every times I do something good, or something to better myself. She doesn’t give me that boring “Good job dude, you did well today” speech. She just faintly looks at me, and smiles. She knows I know that she’s proud of me.  She really only comes around when she’s proud of me.

Recently, Angie hasn’t been coming around. I get the feeling she’s mad at me. Like I’ve been disappointing her. She passed by a few days ago, and told me to keep up the good work. She blamed herself. Can you believe that?! She says it’s her fault for not pushing me more.

Well, that sucks. I hate Angie now. She says I’m the one with the problem. Which is so not the case at all. Any problem I have now, honestly came from talking to her. She made me get in-touch with me my emotional senses, why would Angie  say I have the problem. . .

Maybe I do I have the problem. Angie. . . she was the only one I told everything too. And since she doesn’t want to be here anymore, I’m feeling more like nothing. She was a part of me. The greatest part of my day used to be when I would finally get the chance to be completely alone, and Angie would meet me in the darkness, and tell me about the crazy trips she took to the Mall with her great pack of “friends”, she had many, and me, well, I only had Angie. She’d tell be about the  handsome guy she met at Star-Bucks this morning. Angie loved to tell stories. And I loved to listen.

I dream of being Angie. Being brave, and out there. She was gorgeous, skinny, funny, and outrageously smart. I hope, someday, soon, Angie comes back. It’d be nice to hear another story from her.

Angie loved to tell stories. And I loved to listen.