October 25th 2015 9:26 pm

When I think of my ex best friend, I imagine the smell of her house. It had a weird and comforting aroma of her own smell and breath mixed with her moms cigarette smoke. The house was large, yet mostly empty. There was a sort of setup but not much beyond the average kitchen table and chairs. Picture frames and lawn decorations rested up against the wall, still in packaging. For months at a time did they usually stay put there, I only knew because I rarely visited her home but when I did, things never had changed much. 

Her room was fairly simple but kempt and comfortable. Yet also strangely empty/missing something. On one shelf of a bookcase she had an extensive arrangements of perfumes and lotions from the mall. Each were bought in favor to mask the scent of chain smoke, and I'm going to assume for her own pleasure as well. Not everything was in sake of her insecurities, it would be inconsiderate to think so. 

Among her beauty supplies (which ranged far beyond just lotions and perfumes), were books. I knew she was smart. I read her writing once, maybe twice in my life. It was full of potential. I was envious. I pictured her becoming someone a lot bigger than me. I imagined people idolizing her like they did Sylvia Plath. My only strength was art, still is. She even had some of my pieces on her wall and does to this day. Most were unmoving, an attempt to tap into an art style I had yet to develop. I've come a long way since then but I question every time it's mentioned, why does she still have art of mine hanging up if it doesn't represent who I really am anymore?

During my days of angst, and less mental illness, I never understood her. Once I moved, I found it especially hard to digest why she never wanted to visit me when I was only 15 minutes away. I missed her, I wanted to laugh and create memories over a platform other than skype. I of course, also had no other solid friends at the time and would spend many days by myself.

Living in the same town was much easier. She'd usually come over every other weekend. We never left my room. Every memory made was created in the small nestle of an unfinished basement that was my room. The floor was cold and dirty. The ceiling was patched up with spider webs and dust. It was still my safespace. I usually found a great amount of solidarity in it, so did she. 

One night we laid down on my bed, coats still on, red pigment flushing our cheeks. I put on an ambient record from 2012. (We may or may have not smoked previous to) The entire experience impacted my middle school life greatly. The world was lifted and set back down carefully onto me. We described back and forth our feelings with each levitating track. It was happy, it was dark. I knew I loved her like I did my own mother. I don't listen to the Pixies without picturing her and her (now ex) boyfriend walking down a path in the backwoods of our town, and her glancing back at me, telling me about how Mr. Grieves was still stuck in her head. 

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I'll probably do a friend entry every once in awhile when I'm feeling nostalgic. Not like anyone reads this blog but me anyways, it's mostly for self documentation, and for the day I go crazy.