Mehma

 

Writing about friends is as easy as curing the common cold.

It’s just…. not.

How do you compress a constant feeling and shape it into words.

It’s terribly insufficient.

I once wrote to Mehma saying that I had spent 26 years looking for her. I must have been very emotional and/or happy. She abused me in two different languages and questioned my sexuality in one sentence. She’s got a gift. And that’s why I have to love her.

I have never seen anybody go from hobowithoutgender to DAMN! in the time it takes to have a shower. She’s the sexiest, most stylish person in a room when she thinks it’s worth the effort. 

She has the memory of a gnat, reads the most interesting books, constantly makes fun of me in public, is at my doorstep in a heartbeat if I’ve had a bad day, eats in the most delicate, intricate manner, can belch out the alphabet, has sparkly diamond eyes, parties like its 1999, has shouted at an entire hospital, falls in love as much as me, swears like a truck driver, will tear people in half if they’re mean to me, loves babies, loves her annoying chihuahua, makes the sexiest jackets, has unreal concentration powers, makes great toast, champion at Boggle, exaggerates pathologically, is ridiculously funny, only sees the good in people, can rock skyhigh heels, is verbose, and uses 5 year old hair wax.

She’s perfect.

 

I love that we can go months without seeing each other and barely talking and then pick up exactly where we left off. I love that she is lunar crazy and can never sleep when it’s a full moon. That I have a friend who I can text at 4 a.m and know that she’s probably lying in bed, in a dark room, dealing with some existential issues on that one night when the moon is being loco.

 

We’re born 8 days apart. She’s on the 2nd of January. So, obviously she will call me on the 8th to wish me. Because all that registers is the number 8. Not the number of days 8. For 7 years I’ve got a hysterical, cheery “Happy Birthday Juica” at midnight on the seventh. I mean, really?

I on the other hand forget her birthday. 

 

The thing is, this is the trivial stuff. And the real stuff, like I mentioned before, can’t be put into words. I lucked out when I met her. She is my forever friend. And I know that no matter what life throws at me, I’ll be fine, because I have this incredible, rare creature next to me who I want to hang out with …….  for the rest of my life.

Groucho Marx said “When you’re in jail, a good friend will be trying to bail you out. A best friend will be in the cell next to you saying, ‘Damn, that was fun’.”
And that pretty much sums up our friendship.

I love you Mimi. I say this and I prepare for the verbal assault coming my way.

 

 

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Published by therunawayjuiceincident

I write about my travels. Intergalactic and otherwise....

3 thoughts on “Mehma

  1. Up close and real is how i felt after reading this. Im quite absorbed by this and somehow i now feel that i think i have understood love some more.

    🙂

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