Dana was a friend of mine. She had lanky blonde hair and flesh like partially kneaded dough. Dana wasn't big on fashion, so her clothes hung from her misshapen body like curtains. She spoke like a robot and bored most people out of their minds. When she really got on a roll, pieces of your brain were liable to detach themselves and escape down your oesophagus for a slow and painful death via digestion rather than be subjected to more of her ranting.
I suppose this begs the question of why she was my friend. I guess I'm just one of those people who tries very hard not to think badly of people, so I did my best to make sure she wasn't alone. The problem was that Dana preferred to be alone for the most part. Her manner and appearance wasn't born of a lack of self esteem - it was actually the opposite. She was just so arrogant that you really didn't know how to approach her. She behaved the way she did because she just didn't give a shit what people thought. She'd wander down the street, head held high and rolls of fat pretty clearly on display over her engorged belly. Not even her baggy clothes ever truly hid what was underneath.
Dana never really liked me, but since I was the only one who would sit around and let her rant and get up on her high horse, she kept me around. The strange thing was that whilst she was so intolerable in person, I've always imagined she'd have made a great columnist. In saying so I mean no offence to columnists, but somehow expressing outrageously taboo opinions in print seems to go down a lot better than at some general social event.
When we finally went our separate ways I didn't really miss her. Our friendship had never been real or based on anything other than a sense of duty on my part. I think I could safely say Dana didn't miss me either. I saw her one day, down at the local super market. She was wearing this bright pink velvet tracksuit, with some glittery text printed across her ass that I couldn't read from the distance from which I observed her. She was pushing an already full shopping cart and precariously balancing a box of fruit loops on top of the piles of crap already loaded in..
I suppose this begs the question of why she was my friend. I guess I'm just one of those people who tries very hard not to think badly of people, so I did my best to make sure she wasn't alone. The problem was that Dana preferred to be alone for the most part. Her manner and appearance wasn't born of a lack of self esteem - it was actually the opposite. She was just so arrogant that you really didn't know how to approach her. She behaved the way she did because she just didn't give a shit what people thought. She'd wander down the street, head held high and rolls of fat pretty clearly on display over her engorged belly. Not even her baggy clothes ever truly hid what was underneath.
Dana never really liked me, but since I was the only one who would sit around and let her rant and get up on her high horse, she kept me around. The strange thing was that whilst she was so intolerable in person, I've always imagined she'd have made a great columnist. In saying so I mean no offence to columnists, but somehow expressing outrageously taboo opinions in print seems to go down a lot better than at some general social event.
When we finally went our separate ways I didn't really miss her. Our friendship had never been real or based on anything other than a sense of duty on my part. I think I could safely say Dana didn't miss me either. I saw her one day, down at the local super market. She was wearing this bright pink velvet tracksuit, with some glittery text printed across her ass that I couldn't read from the distance from which I observed her. She was pushing an already full shopping cart and precariously balancing a box of fruit loops on top of the piles of crap already loaded in..
