I have felt lonely for so long because I removed myself from the ticking time-bomb group of friends I had emerged myself in.
It’s hard sometimes, having no one accept 2, maybe 3, people to rely on. But most of the time, I feel the strangest satisfaction.
I’ve sat back and watched as each and every one of my old friends got shipped off to rehab, locked away in a cell, or set up camp at the park, a society for the local homeless, meth addicted youth.
I used to feel bad about it, like I had to help. I was the only one that hadn’t succumbed to Rancho’s drug of choice, the rightful savior of the damned adolescents. But, in complete sincerity, I don’t anymore.
A huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders, finally knowing that any last ounce of sympathy I had has now dried up, been tucked away in a shoe box with photos and crumpled, notebook paper drawings.