My morning routine never changes so I complete it with nothing new to report and leave the house at 8.10am. I pick up a lot of fruit on the way to work from my favourite Turkish market. I’m disappointed though that they always leave their bananas out to turn black. Nothing worse. Great if I was making banana bread, though. I remember the evening before I saw a woman buying some and pondered what it must be like to be a woman who makes banana bread. Nice I would imagine.
I get in and fall into my tasks quickly. There’s a lot to do today so I put my head down. A couple of people ask me how I’m feeling which is nice. I talk to a colleague about general wellness and she doesn’t believe me when I tell her I’m turning 40 next year. This pleases me.
I sort out some niggly bits and get a lot done in the morning, 1pm flies around. While I’m working I catch up on Criminal Podcast and also listen to the lastest episode of one called All Out of Bubblegum ;D.
I laugh out loud at some of the things we discuss in the episode. James has never listened back to a full episode of ours as he says he wouldn’t be able to stand his own voice or the things he says. I’m the opposite. In the moment I always feel like I’ve not said enough or contributed to the conversation but I listen back and I know that’s not true. I marvel at the fact our next episode is our tenth. Ten whole episodes! Not bad for a couple of dufuses who wanted to make a podcast, and then did. BOOM!
The afternoon is busy too, at lunch I typed up my Tuesday & Wednesday post. I got a shout out in Meghan’s Wednesday post and I want her to know I feel the same. We’ve been through a lot and it wasn’t always a sanguine time for either of us back in the day but we got through it via the power of friendship. Those were some of my happiest times in my life. Love you girl!
The latter half of the working day goes quickly. At five I check Twitter and I realise how busy I’ve been not to have gone onto social media. Usually I have a quick peek every 20 mins at least, if even for a second. I feel satisfied to have crossed so much off my list.
After work I walk with my friend Mark to meet another friend for coffee. It’s pissing down and the droplets run off my fringe and then my nose. A con of having a blunt fringe. On the way Mark fills me in on some work gossip from the other end of the office. It’s a shocker. He doesn’t stay for a hot drink but says hello to Darren and leaves us to it.
I haven’t seen Darren for a few weeks so we have a lot to cover. He tells me all about his new job. He looks well and is dressed smart for the office, which works for him. He used to work at my work and was so unhappy, it’s nice to see the change. We talk about my work and several people we know in some depth. It’s funny. We arrange a date for the 27th of this month, he’s going to take me to see Nocturnal Animals or Arrival for my birthday.
I talk to him a bit about my currently feelings of anxiety and how I feel about myself in general, and he understands completely. He’s a good one to talk to as he can empathise well. We’re both so hard on ourselves sometimes. I feel much better for the honest chat.
Darren walks me home for about 7.30pm. Glynn’s still at the gym when I get in so I start dinner. Chilli. It’s very easy, I just chop a load of stuff up and throw it in a pan. I catch up on Drifters. We discuss our days and decide to skip podcast homework tonight, and watch Suicide Squad again. I cringe a lot more than I did in the theater, Jared Leto‘s Joker is unbearable.
We go to bed about 11pm and I don’t sleep until nearly ten to midnight. Shocking!
I stole this idea from last month’s Cosmopolitan, not going to lie. It was lying around in the gym last night and I take my inspiration where I can get it. Cosmo’s version has more of a single girl flavour though, choosing to celebrate the solo babes of cinema in line with the release of Bridget Jone’s Baby.
I’m just picking the 8 movie women I’d most like to hang with and why, because why wouldn’t I? It’s an awesome plan.
In no particular order:
Who? Lisbeth Salander (Rooney Mara, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo) Why? Look, Lisbeth isn’t exactly warm and fluffy, I know this. Hugs might be a little light on the ground but when it comes to loyalty, there’s nobody more so. I’m all about that and appreciate it in friends. Plus, if I accidentally ever send a dodgy email to somebody, who better than Lisbeth to intercept it before it gets read? What she’d teach me: How to actually use my laptop for more than just streaming Netflix and buying toot.
Who? Beatrix Kiddo AKA The Bride (Uma Thurman, Kill Bill: Vol. 1 & 2) Why? She’s just very cool and focused. I could use inspiration like that in my life. She also has the whole revenge thing down pat so I know, if anyone ever really hurt me, she’d have some tips on how to deal. What she’d teach me: How to be handy with the Japanese steel, or failing that, a stick from the park.
Who? Alabama Worley, née Whitman (Patricia Arquette, True Romance) Why? Alabama is sweetness personified with, like me, a love of martial art movies and pie. She also believes in true love and girl, you got me there. Love is the only thing that really matters in life as far as I’m concerned, be it romantic, parental, whatever – there’s a reason it makes the world go round. What she’d teach me: How to be creative and strong in a fight, whilst rocking the shit out of leopard print and candy-coloured Lycra.
Who? Mary Mason (Katharine Isabelle, American Mary) Why? Mary would be the hot friend I had a bit of a thing for. She’s an academic but she’s also open to trying new and bizarre things. The desire to accompany her on these adventures would hopefully rub off on me. She’d likely be the most open-minded of the gang and ferociously feminist, which is fine by me. What she’d teach me: To express myself better. How to be braver when I get piercings.
Who? Abby Yates (Melissa McCarthy, Ghostbusters) Why? She’s so fun and smart, and rocks a boiler suit like nobody’s business. She’s also not afraid to fight for what she believes in (ghosts), even when the rest of the world is rolling their eyes at her and her team. She’d probably make me look cleverer just by association. What she’d teach me: Sciencey shit and how to wield a proton pack (like I wouldn’t ask to try it).
Who? Emily Gilmore (Kelly Bishop, Gilmore Girls) Why? Not technically a ‘big screen’ character but Emily stays. (She was in Dirty Dancing and a load of other films, what more do you want from me?). Em might seem like a controversial choice with a few decades on the rest of us but man is she good fun. Appreciates a damn good drink, always comes through for her loved ones and is the sassiest person in the Stars Hollow area (yes I know she’s a way out of town). You’d always be drunk and/or laughing your arse off round Emily’s. What she’d teach me: How to burn my haters with the flick of my tongue (not like that, you pervs).
Who? Margaret (Lisa Haas, The Foxy Merkins) Why? Why not? She’s so adorable. A bit bumbling but then so am I. She’s a hooker in the loosest sense of the word and one could argue, the worst of all time which just makes her more endearing. Margaret would most certainly be the ‘Bad Sex’ storyteller of the group. TBH I’ve just been reminded of the single best quote in cinematic history, uttered by Margaret about her plus size vagina to “The Mumbling Erotic Accessory Salesman” trying to sell her a merkin. What she’d teach me: How to be resourceful when I’m down and out.
Who? Barb Holland (Shannon Purser, Stranger Things) Why? Barb’s another small screen sensation but I was hardly going to exclude her from my dream girl gang, was I? Every squad needs a sensible type and Barb’s not a great drinker, is the designated driver and will worry about my morals for me (although p. sure that ship has sailed and circled the globe several times already). I’d keep her away from pools and beer cans though, she’s a bit of a liability. What she’d teach me: To make the right decisions. Maybe. Probably not. But she’d try.
Sometimes when people talk about their very best friends I feel sad. I mean, let’s face facts here, my last long-term ‘friend relationship’ didn’t end well.
That’s not to say I haven’t had long beautiful ones since then but that experience taught me that in some cases labels are not a good thing. When I think back, I might as well have been wearing a badge saying “Hello, my name is Christa ~ property of xxx”.
Being a best friend became a job in some respects, part~stand up comic (performing monkey), part~cleaner (on account of all the damage done to others) and it wasn’t fun or healthy for either of us in the end.
So the last five years have been a period of reflection. I’ve talked about it before and two years later it’s still on my mind. I love my friends dearly but when it comes to best friend-dom, to pure exclusivity, to I am yours/you are minealone ownership – I don’t think I’ll ever have that again.
I’m close with Panda, who surely understands where I’m coming from as she’s been there with me through most of it. And there’s David, who’s millions of miles away in distance only and one of my most favourite human beings on this earth. There are my girls; the greatest individuals you could imagine.
There’s no room in my life for jealousy or possession anymore, I want people to be around me because they want to be and because they think I’m fun, not because they own me. My friends are all my best friends now, as I am to myself.
Learning to be your own best friend is fun too. It’s about learning what you’re worth, listening to your body and mind, giving yourself a break and treating yourself with the utmost kindness.
It’s about buying yourself that soft sweater, taking yourself for coffee and soaking in the tub. It’s about knowing when you need help and learning how to ask for it.
I am mine, after all ~ better make this relationship count ❤
Call it the turning of the season, call it needing something solid to comfort me as I navigate this cruel wasteland of a world. Whatever we do decide to call it, it’s the best (televisual) thing to happen me since, well Stranger Things. And Stranger Things was very good indeed.
Gilmore Girls is something I’ve avoided successfully for years. First aired in 2000, it’s all about the close bond between Lorelai Gilmore and her 16-year-old daughter Rory and I’d written it off as too twee for me.
Well. Don’t get me wrong, it is on the cheesy side but imagine a pile of steaming hot cheesy chips for a second. Fromage-heavy indeed, but also extremely satisfying and comforting.
My friend Sian mentioned it last time I saw her and described it as one of the things she turns to when she’s in need of TLC and that sold it. I’m now six seasons down and even my husband’s into it.
Here are my observations so far:
*Beware possible SPOILERS*
I’d move to Stars Hollows in a heartbeat if I could, it’s the cutest.
Dean is the fucking worst with no redeeming qualities whatsoever.
Logan is the most charismatic Rory boyfriend but ultimately I think she should get with Jess once, and end up with none of them.
Rory’s British accent is horrific.
These teens sure do like getting married huh?
I can’t work out if I find Luke attractive or not.
Emily Gilmore is hands down the best character, she’s deliciously wry.
There sure are a lot of homophobic/fat jokes, eh? Must have been in vogue in the early noughties.
How is it that neither Lorelai or Rory ever put on weight given the amount of take out they devour?
Paris is the second best character. Then Mrs. Kim. I like the aggressive ones.
Why did Rory wait so long to get bangs, they look incredible.
Sookie is amazing and all but the clumsy kooky fat chick schtick is a little bit old.
Kirk‘s tax return must be all over the place the amount of jobs he does.
It genuinely makes me feel anxious when Lorelai and Rory fight.
Joking aside, the show really does have a lot going for it. The relationship between mother and daughter is fun to watch, the wise-cracking between them, while exhausting and relentless, must have been quite something back when this first came out.
It’s a very feminist show, about two women growing together without a man around. The women speak openly about everything, from sex to drug use, and it promotes female friendship so well. I even find Lorelai’s fractious relationship with her parents touching, and often well up when Emily finally comes through.
I can now understand why the people who love it love it so much. I’m one of them.
Here’s to Season 7 and the 2016 reunion. I can’t hardly wait!
**This love letter contains Stranger Things spoilers**
A couple of months back I fell in love, and I fell hard.
Sadly, this love was never fully realised as, a) it was for a fictional character and b) the object of my affection was coldly snatched from me before it could develop any further.
Still, that’s not going to stop me waxing lyrical on how great she is. So without further ado, let’s hear it for The Barb.
Barb Holland (of Stranger Things), on the face of it, comes off as a bit of a drag. I mean, she’s sensible and protective and that comes from the best possible place but she also has a judgmental air that isn’t becoming. But she’s the ‘mom’, she cares about her BFF Nancy Wheeler, worries about her virtue and means well.
I know how she feels for I was Barb back in the day, and this is undoubtedly why the character means so much to me. Slightly off in the looks department, terrified she will be dumped for the cooler crowd and not at all attractive to the opposite sex (yet) so therefore without a frame of reference as Nancy gains sexual experience and maturity. Me.
And millions of former awkward kids across the world, which again has to be part of the reason why she’s become such a stand out from the series, despite only being in three episodes.
Barb has a style all her own, all mom jeans and ruffled checks, ginormous snooker-player spectacles and ginger helmet hair (which I remember only too well from my own follicle history). She is resolutely herself and that’s what I like. Had she not been dragged into The Upside Down perhaps this would have changed and Barb would have swapped the Dennis Taylors for contacts and lowered her waistlines, fallen more in line with the new crew. This would have been fine if that’s what she wanted, but Barb is/was perfect already.
The only fly in Barb’s ointment, apart from the death and all, is that when she was gone only one person visibly cared. Justice was never served for Barb Holland and it’s an outrage of epic proportions. When Will Byers disappears, the whole town gets involved and his mother Joyce doesn’t rest for a second. Neither do his friends. When Barb goes missing, only Nancy notices her absence and only Nancy mourns her when her fate is casually revealed. Barb deserved better.
The Duffer Brothers promise #justiceforbarb in Season Two, coming up in 2017 and I bloody hope they deliver. In the meantime though, this one goes out to The Queen of the Upside Down, the slightly annoying but caring friend, who would have lived had she not tried to fit in, or if she’d been a worse friend and just left Nancy to her own nocturnal devices.
Ah Jillian. My beloved work wife and bad movie partner in crime, let me count the ways. We’ve been collaborating on our film reviews for nearly two years now, talk regularly about our mutual anxieties in all aspects of life and were lucky enough to meet in the flesh this May, which was epic.
I can’t remember my life without Jill in it and honestly, this has been the best thing about blogging for me, making real friends within the blogging community. You can keep your endorsements, your free swag, your one million comments, likes and shares – none of that is as important as genuine connection. And my wife is as genuine as they come.
So enjoy Jill’s post. You can find her on her brilliant blog The Pink Panther Snipes Again where she blogs regularly about B-movies, books, life and Bertha Mason, Warrior Queen of all the Cats.
Christa asked me to participate in her blog series focusing on inspiration and empowerment amidst all of the shit that has been this year. I was both honored and terrified to contribute because (a) I don’t radiate positivity on my best day and (b) I’d been feeling the lowest I have in a long time (which realistically is probably a month) for nearly a solid week and I had trouble even getting through the weekend.
It’s well established that I can’t talk about anything topical without losing my shit. (The first draft I put together reached a level of angst I haven’t achieved since my teenage journaling days.) Other years have been a challenge too, but this year feels especially like a sucker punch to the gut. I’m really tired of hearing about how the world is heading to hell in a handbasket when you know, the same thing was said about women riding a fucking bicycle. (Thanks,Kate Beaton.)
That being said, I’ve still been staying up late to follow the Republican National Convention, which only succeeds in aggravating me right before bedtime. I KNOW it’s bad for me, and I follow politics way more than I intend to because I care about social justice. I honestly don’t know how you can be a librarian if you don’t since it’s essentially about helping people find information and learn things for themselves with no financial incentive whatsoever.
But so I don’t lose my goddamn mind (further), let’s talk about a familiar topic that is a mere stone’s throw away from the bad movie blog: TV. My latest binge-watch is Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, which is a relatively short binge as it’s only 18 episodes so far. Despite what you might conclude from the show’s title and truly terrible promos, it’s an incredibly funny, subversive, musical dark comedy.
The show follows Rebecca Bunch, a career-driven New York lawyer about to get everything she’s always wanted and become partner at her law firm. Or so she believes. She receives a wake-up call in the form of a butter commercial and a chance meeting with Josh, her ex-boyfriend from summer camp 10 years prior. Realizing she’s miserably unhappy, Rebecca impulsively moves to Josh’s hometown, West Covina (an LA suburb).
Stay with me because I KNOW the premise sounds cringe worthy, cliché, and anti-feminist. But like so many current TV shows, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend takes a familiar premise and twists it into a self-aware, satirical social commentary. And refreshingly, Rebecca carries a great deal of emotional baggage without being dismissed as crazy (except, you know, in the show’s name).
I can’t quite put my finger on what it is that I love so much about this show, but the characterizations of its main and supporting characters are certainly a huge part of it. Honestly, Rebecca is the character I’ve related to most since Liz Lemon (well, also sarcastic supporting character Heather). Don’t get me wrong—I’m not sure either of these characters are great to emulate, but they feel real to me in a way that so many female characters don’t.
Rebecca is one of the few characters I can think of who has anxiety and depression that isn’t used solely for comedic effect. We see her processing her problems logically but ultimately choosing the most self-destructive path possible. She worries about not really having any friends, being a bad feminist, and not being able to convince everyone that she’s doing fine. Among other things, there are songs about Rebecca’sdepression,self-loathing, andbeing a good person (or not)–all of which get stuck in my head for days. Whenever I’m watching, I constantly swing between laughter and the terrible suspicion that someone has stolen my memories and made them into a TV show.
It’s nice to see a character trying and often failing to stop lying to herself and allow herself to feel what she feels. Sometimes the only thing you’ll be able to do is sit on the couch all day and fail to motivate yourself to go outside. Not that I speak from experience…
Which is, of course, a blatant lie. My experiences with depression are a major part of this show’s appeal to me. Reading was my escape for a really long time, and I fell apart a little when it stopped working for me. There are still days when I pick up a book that I’m desperate to finish only to put it down a few paragraphs later when all I can think about is how badly I fucked up that one conversation from weeks ago or why I haven’t done more with my life.
I wish reading were still my escape because it was for years and years, but I’m working on giving myself a break for my needs and interests changing and simply giving myself time and space to be nice to myself. True, reading is a more intellectual pursuit than watching TV or terrible shark movies, but sometimes my brain just needs a fucking break.
This is also a reason I fail to understand the drive for constant self-improvement. I appreciate that goals help push people to achieve their dreams and look back in satisfaction on their accomplishments, but sometimes a goal feels like the opportunity to break another promise to myself and to fail (again). There are days when I just need to survive. As TV is currently proving, it can be something really stupid that gets you through it. And when I say “through it,” I mean temporarily because there’s nothing that will ever drive the bad thoughts away entirely. And I’d be an intolerably peppy person if I never had any dark thoughts whatsoever.
I don’t like to give advice because it’s a really bad idea to follow in my footsteps, but these are the things I try to remind myself. It’s ok to not feel strong, but you are, especially when you know you need help and support. It’s ok to reach out to people and tell them you’re feeling shitty. It’s also ok to have your own personal feeling space where no one is allowed to enter. It’s ok to be fucking sad. It’s so ok to do nothing except breathe and remind yourself to keep on breathing. And journal, you guys. I can’t say enough for journaling.
Of course I want to feel happy and I want you to be happy, but I think it’s more important to find the strength to accept what you feel. Even when you’d prefer to gloss over it or repress the shit out of it (I’ve been there so hard).
This self-care reminder is something I look at A LOT and probably one of the best things to come out of Tumblr:
I was recently lucky enough to find Kenzie via her GREAT blog This, On Purpose (or she found me, it doesn’t matter). What matters is that I love what she writes and we share a love of horror films and pop culture in particular.
Based on this, and the fact she’s a very cool girl, it was a no-brainer to ask Kenzie to be involved in the She’s All That series. Go check her out on her blog forthwith!
Christa, the lovely creative behind A Voluptuous Mind, has graciously invited me to guest blog here. I’ll readily admit I’ve had one premise in mind for it as it’s kicked me hard over the past couple of months, so I thank Christa for giving me an alternate outlet for it.
There are no greater friendships than the ones that press on.
At 43, I ought to know this by now. At 43, I still sometimes have trouble.
“Ghosting” is a strangely appropriate slang term often reserved for when one is dating. One is left in the lurch, completely disconnected of all communication from the other. It’s an invisible-man sort of phasing out of existence, a shitty passive-aggressive “good bye” consisting of no return calls, no return emails, no return texts. Nothing.
Frankly, I think the term is too limiting in its definition because “ghosting”, such as it is, occurs amongst friends as well.
I was eleven when I first experienced ghosting from a friend. There was this girl gang, a clowder of cats with feathered hair and pastel-neon colored clothes. Eleven, and I was too earnest. I didn’t understand “mean” coming from girls my age whatsoever. “Mean” belonged at home with angry family members. “Mean” came from schoolboys confused about the changes happening, the wolves coming out to hunt. Susan led the girl gang, the clowder. Susan with her glinty eyes edged with bright blue ice queen liner.
Susan didn’t like me much. Maybe it was my naturally curly hair that hadn’t been frizz-permed into a sticky Aqua Net mold. Maybe it was my pale skin that couldn’t turn golden in the sun. Instead, it went all strawberry and wetly peeled. Maybe it was my temperament, the fact I cried about anything because I didn’t understand.
Or maybe it was because I had something Susan wanted: my best friend, Holly.
Holly and I had shared much and had been through even more together. We were also survivors, sisters-in-arms, having been stalked and tormented by a nasty trio of teenaged boys with their jagged leers and switchblades. We were inseparable; we were true.
Then one day, Holly shut it off, she shut it all off. We’d no cell phones in the ’80s, but we didn’t need them. In middle school, back then, we were all about passing notes and recording, whispering secrets and communing. One day, Holly simply disconnected me by ignoring everything I said, everything I did, anything I could do to get her attention. All I saw of her in those weeks after was the view of her rigid back coupled with the occasional sidelong glare and eye roll.
It was Susan, of course, the one responsible for Holly’s ghosting of me. Susan would say something that scratched and left marks, often something scathing (and utterly unoriginal) about my appearance, and Holly, standing there, finally in the midst of the clowder, would laugh as it was expected of her, glancing every so often at Susan for approval. Even still, Holly didn’t look at me when she joined in the taunts and jeers.
In middle school, cats like Susan would inevitably get tossed in the water, left to fend for themselves. It took both time and a horribly embarrassing situation for Holly to reappear in my world. I was several weeks into my Susan-concocted invisibility when my first period (yes, that) hit me while I was on the school bus on the way back home. I was sitting in the back, well away from Holly and her siblings. They all sat in the front of the bus, her siblings acting as a barricade in case I tried to come up to talk to her.
It was always a long ride after an arduous day at school. We had a bus driver who made it clear to everyone on board, every day, that he hated kids. He also had a habit of pulling over to the side of the highway to take a piss right there, out in the open, in front of the world and its children. Anyway, the bus driver regularly screamed all sorts of colorful obscenities if any of us attempted to shift into another seat, so I quietly stayed put in my misery, thanking the gods of frumpy clothing for the long, baggy windbreaker I had on that day. I don’t know if it was an act of blatant stupidity on my part, but I was so desperate for a friend who would sympathize about the torment I was going through. So I did what any other eleven year-old girl would do in such a predicament: I sent Holly a note from my place at the back of the bus, one of those meticulously folded things that would’ve taken a Rubik’s Cube expert to unravel.
I’d taken a risk, of course. The bus was dotted with kids who’d be more than likely to attempt to unfold my note and read it aloud to anyone even half-listening. Luckily, everybody on the bus then was much more engrossed in the thrash metal music one of the 8th graders insisted the bus driver play on the way home (he didn’t like the 8th graders either, but if it got everyone to shut the hell up, so much the better). I watched her from the back as Holly carefully unfolded the note and read it, her lips moving as she took in every word I’d written. When she’d finished, she carefully folded the note and stowed it deep in a backpack pocket. Her gaze was steady towards the front. She seemed deep in contemplation rather than apathetic, which was a good sign. After a minute, she shifted in her seat, facing the aisle and rear of the bus, her eyes locking with mine. She nodded at me and held up a finger for me to wait. Then she glanced over at the bus driver, who was focused on both the road and the cassette that was suddenly being eaten whole by the cassette player.
Holly quickly slung her backpack over her shoulder and, head down, scurried to the back of the bus. When she finally reached me, she plopped herself down right beside me, and I knew right then the ghosting barricade had been lifted, especially when she leaned against me and whispered, “Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore,” I said. We grimaced at each other, at the very thought of womanhood, so gross. Just as the bus driver caught on to what had happened and yelled at Holly for having moved, we started giggling like mad.
Our bond reinstated, we dealt with all the Susans, all the unlucky circumstances, all the mishaps and dangers that come with the cusp of teenaged life. We remained friends until our families relocated due to military obligations.
It was like that then, far easier to forgive at eleven years old.
I’d not really been affected by “ghosting” from adult friends until the past several years or so. One good friend in particular quite recently decided it best to cut me off for some inexplicable reason, to “ghost” me, if you will—this, even after we’d talked a lot about just how shitty the act of “ghosting” was. (Yeah, I like my betrayal served with a hefty side of hypocrisy. Who doesn’t?)
Adult friends recognize that ghosting is not polite, it’s not civil. Adults are meant to talk to each other. If there was a problem, drinks and conversation ought to do the trick. It’s the kind of talk that lasts well into the evening when the sky is a bruised, brushed curtain and time has grown meaningless. There’d be some tears shed, some egos deflated, if only for a moment. Nevertheless, it’s a time when hats are off, but no one goes home without answers because that would simply defeat the purpose.
There are some adults around though who’d prefer not to face their problems with another, head on, and I don’t understand it at all. It’s almost as if they believe that by cutting off someone else, they’re doing that particular so-called friend a favor. After all, what kind of person in her/his right mind enjoys confrontation?
Hell, I call cowardice on the matter.
So I end this with a(n unsolicited) warning for those friends, good friends, better friends, and best friends out there, particularly those grownups who are on the cusp of ending it outright without informing the other about it:
If so inclined to keep things mum, be well aware that friendship’s done. An attempt to rekindle that friendship true will undoubtedly be greeted with a fitting ‘Fuck you.’