For various reasons, which may or may not be made clear to you all shortly, I have been thinking a lot lately about friendship, beautiful, beautiful friendship, and how hard it is, in this day and age, to know when you’ve actually made a friend.
I don’t mean a social acquaintance. I don’t mean a drinking buddy. I mean an honest to goodness friend, someone who will tell you that you’re not fat and it’s not your fault and yes, you have talent and blah, blah, blah, with a minimum of eyerolling, and maybe even at four in the morning, if it’s really an emergency. Or, in the case of Ira Einhorn, The Famous Unicorn Killer, someone who will help you carry a heavy trunk out to the river and toss it in.
I am quite sure that at least a few of my friends would help me dispose of a body, but old Ira wasn’t quite so lucky. Maybe they were pissed that he lied to them and told them that the trunk was full of “secret documents.” Maybe they had carpal tunnel syndrome. Anyway, they didn’t help. I mean, you know, thank goodness. In case you confused about my stance on serial killers — I’m against them.
Honestly, I don’t know why I keep watching these true crime shows, but it may be time to call someone. I think I watch like two of these damn things a day now. Soon I’ll see serial killers when I shut my eyes, like the after-images of Tetris tiles burned into my corneas.