Manic Pixie Dream Nerd

Sloane Crosley, The Clasp

Adam Gopnick in The New Yorker

Ugh. I went out tonight and found myself suckered into talking to a religious person on the subway home. Sober me would've remembered, "Oh, I live in New York, and this girl really interested in what I'm saying must want something." Drunk me engaged her for way too long.

She was never pushy, just friendly. Too friendly. And I told her why I have bad associations with religion—homophobia, sexism, racism—and forgot to mention the whole skepticism-of-fantasy-literature-as-justification part.

Maybe I'm getting soft. Probably it's alcohol.

Me: Have fun at therapy!

Him: There's no fun at therapy. It's like a dentist appointment for your feelings.

Me: No it's not. When your therapist asks how you're doing, she actually wants to know.

Him: "How are you doing?" "I'm turning into my father!"

I once wrote a story in which the heartbroken protagonist wonders, "Why should I try to be the bigger person, when his fat ass is the bigger person?"

This is something I must've said—and have definitely felt—a few times in my life. Sometimes there's nothing left to save, so why not get out your best one-liners, make a scene, and move on?

But this was not one of those times.

A year ago, I celebrated a good friend's 50th birthday by presenting her with a jar stuffed with 50 reasons different friends love her. It wasn't easy to put together. Many friends were people I'd never met and had to find through Facebook or the grapevine. Said friend's birthday is days into the new year, so everyone was on vacation and hard to reach.

I'm not sharing these details, because I need an award for Sweetest Birthday Gift 2014. I know it was a great gift. I wanted it to be—my friend deserved it. She was turning 50 and had expressed her loneliness and a number of regrets about life decisions, and I didn't want her to feel that way.

She enjoyed the gift, as far as I could tell. The year went on, and life happened. She moved to a different neighborhood, everyone was busy, and we saw each other less and less. And I found that I didn't really miss her much.

So much of that birthday jar had been about trying to prove she was enough—accomplished enough, loved enough, good enough—when she may never actually feel it herself. She's not married; she never had children. It's a regret she has to address every day.

And oh, does she.

True friends get front row tickets to the shitshow. I don't think it's always a bad thing. But nearly every hangout for I don't know how long had devolved into a recitation of regrets, a review of how others had wronged her, etc. It was exhausting. I read somewhere that people in our lives are either radiators or drains. (Overly simplified, I know. But people do tend to work in one general direction.) My friend had become a drain.

I'm not sure if she knew it. I didn't say anything until she sent me a series of angry emails about what an awful, selfish person I am. She brought up things she's been upset about since 2011, issues I wasn't aware we had.

So I told her she could be very bitter and draining to be around. She always turned things into a monologue about how bad her life was, when she really has so much to be grateful for. I wished her well and didn't hear from her for months. She unfriended me on Facebook, which was probably the biggest insult of all. I don't believe in unfriending someone until they terrorize you or kill one of your family members.

Months later, my friend emailed and said she wanted to "move forward," which is something that the Real Housewives franchises have revived. I'm not usually a big "move forward" person. When things are over, they're over. Sequels are never as good as the first movie, and besides, it's hard to get the same actors.

But we met and talked and it wasn't the most awkward thing I've ever done. We said we wanted to get together again. She reached out to me with some invite. I declined. I reached out to her about something, and she said she had plans with other people for the next month or something. I invited her to Beylesque and never heard back at all.

It had been almost a year since I gave her that jar, and now I'd rather answer a call from a telemarketer than one from her. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to ignore her birthday, as she had done mine. Or should I do the whole Ani DiFranco thing with an "I loved you. So what?"

I decided to be the bigger person.

I sent her a happy birthday email with best wishes and signed with just my name. No love. No xoxo. No "let's hang out soon."

And I crossed it off my to-do list.