Not having a best friend, when you'd had a best friend your whole life, since before you could even remember, is the pits. The agony is lessening over time, the pain is rarely very sharp, and yet the cold, reptilian anger remains. And every once in a while I get a reminder of why my best friend is now my erstwhile best friend, and the senselessness of it begins to make a little bit of sense. And tucked away in a distant, dusty corner of my heart, there is the tiniest, slightest spark of gladness. Had you asked me a year ago, I should have thought that impossible. Common wisdom holds that time heals all wounds, and this may well prove true. And yet the cold, reptilian anger remains. Not a comfort, but a companion. A confederate and counsel. Not having a best fiend is the pits, but I've been worse, and things are looking up.

"A little more than kin, and less than kind."
--Wm. Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act I, Scene II

I thought about writing this post in second-person, but decided against it. If you're going to use second-person, you've got to thrown yourself into it, all or nothing. Another time, mark my words.