Sometimes, I hate my best friend. It's a terrible thing to say, but it's true. I have absolute contempt for him. Some of it, honestly comes from simple envy, but other times. He has this charm that draws people to him, I've watched beautiful people swarm around him. They ignore me. I've watched the clever people become enamored with him, they only want me for conversation. Someone once said that the real difference between me and Angel is simple; he smiles, I don't. He smiles even when he's unhappy, I often have a pensive expression even when I'm enjoying myself.

I don't think it's that simple though. Take Ramiro. Ramiro, Angel and I went to a club not two weeks ago. Angel went off to flirt with anything on two legs, and I stuck with Ramiro who was new to town and knew no one. I danced with Ramiro. He held my hand in the courtyard outside of the club. He had his arm around me possessively several times during the evening.

Later that night, Angel was piss-drunk and nearly passed out in the park across the street from the club. Ramiro was worried about being able to get home in time. He and I, and a couple that are friends of Angel's sat in the park. This strange guy wandered through and started to talk to the four of us. He gave me the creeps. He had two completely different stories for everything; first his name was Andrew, then Andreas, he had a house that was not his house. And there was just something about him in gereral that disturbed me, just a vague intuition of something wrong. I go to check on Angel and make sure he hasn't swallowed his tongue, and when I get back, Ramiro says that Andrew is going to take him home. He says goodbye to them. He did not say goodbye to me.

I called his house later that afternoon because I was annoyed that he had not said goodbye, but also secretly because I wanted to make sure he had made it home okay. He was not there. I called again the following monday, he was still not there. On wednesday I was getting nervous, what if this Andrew had killed Ramiro and stuffed him under his bed? His sister didn't seem worried. But he apparently had not been home since that night. I wondered what to do.

I found out he was fine yesterday. Not because he called me, but because on sunday he called Angel. He called Angel who was not worried about him. Angel who did not call him after. Angel who did not pay any attention to him at all that night. He was worried what Angel might think of him. That, I think was an even bigger slap in the face than his not bothering to say goodbye to me. He still has not called me.

And today I talked to Angel and heard him once more say something callous and unfeeling about someone who had a crush on him. It burns me up that so many people are concerned what Angel thinks, want Angel's friendship, desire his company when he's so unfeeling towards them. He is my best friend, and I know that he can be a good friend, but were he ever to treat me in the same way he treats others, I would never talk to him again and loyalty is one of my best qualities.

Today, I am sick and it's hard to feel attractive when your face is alternately pale and blotchy and you smell like Vick's Vaporub. So when Angel calls me to tell me how he's breaking the heart of some innocent nineteen-year-old, I am not in the mood to hear it. I am not in the mood to hear his phony laugh as he recounts his latest story of playing Estella. I lashed out him. We exchanged angry words.

Neither of us will apologize. One of us will call the other, and we'll pretend nothing has happened. But the reasons will still be there. I think sometimes I feel this way because I wish I had it in me to close myself off like that, to not care. I can't.