There Were Times When I Wished You Were Dead

Okay, okay, before you call the authorities, let me explain. We’ve all been there, right? Those moments, those tiny, infuriating moments, when you just want to… poof! …someone out of existence. Just temporarily, of course. Like, for five minutes. Or maybe an hour. You know, depending on the infraction.

And yeah, I’m talking about you, Sarah. (Just kidding! Mostly.) But seriously, there were times… times I legitimately questioned the universe's wisdom in placing you in my life. Don’t worry, I’m sure you felt the same about me! Fair is fair, after all.

The Prologue: A Friendship Forged in Fire (Or, Bad Haircuts)

Our friendship story isn't all sunshine and roses, let's be honest. It started in 8th grade. Remember those awkward years? Braces, questionable fashion choices, the desperate search for identity... pure chaos! We bonded over our mutual misery, I think. And the fact that Mrs. Henderson's algebra class was universally understood as a form of medieval torture. Shared trauma, you know? It's a powerful glue.

But oh, the drama! So. Much. Drama. Remember when you accidentally dyed your hair green? Emerald green! And then you blamed me for suggesting the brand? I swear, that’s when the first flicker of “I wish she’d just… disappear” crossed my mind. Dramatic? Maybe. But you have to understand, I was also rocking a perm that could rival Sideshow Bob’s at the time. We were both victims of circumstance!

And yet, somehow, we survived. High school, college applications, questionable boyfriends (we’ll get to them later… oh yes, we will). Through it all, we were… well, we were a mess. But we were our mess, you know?

Exhibit A: The Boyfriend Debacle (Or, When You Dated My Crush)

Okay, deep breaths. This one still stings a little. Remember Mark? Tall, dark, brooding… Basically, everything 16-year-old me thought was attractive. I spent weeks crafting the perfect witty remark to get his attention. I even practiced my nonchalant lean against the lockers (which, let’s be real, probably looked more like a desperate lunge).

And then… you swooped in. Like a beautiful, charming, boyfriend-stealing (I’m kidding!… mostly) eagle. You two were suddenly inseparable. Lunch dates, after-school study sessions, whispered secrets… It was like a teen movie playing out right in front of me, and I was stuck playing the sad, unnoticed extra.

That was a low point. A very low point. The internal screaming? Unbearable. The passive-aggressive comments thinly veiled as concern? Legendary. And the wishing? Oh, the wishing! I wished Mark would suddenly develop an allergy to your perfume. I wished you’d trip and spill spaghetti sauce all over your white dress during the homecoming dance. I wished, dare I say it, that you’d… well, you know. The dead thing. For, like, a millisecond.

Looking back, it's hilarious. Mark was a total dud. He was obsessed with his car and talked about it constantly. You did me a favor! But at the time? Pure, unadulterated rage. So, yeah, wishing you gone? Check.

Exhibit B: The Intervention That Wasn’t (Or, My Questionable Fashion Choices)

Fast forward a few years. College. Freedom. The right to wear whatever the heck I wanted! And what I wanted, apparently, was a lot of neon. And tie-dye. And those awful platform shoes. I was… experimenting. Let’s just leave it at that.

You, on the other hand, had developed impeccable taste. Chic, understated, effortlessly cool. You were basically a walking fashion magazine. And you tried. You really tried. To gently steer me away from the sartorial abyss. "Honey," you'd say, with that concerned look on your face, "are you sure you want to wear that to the party?"

Of course, I didn’t listen. I was convinced I was being edgy and original. You were just being… well, you. Concerned. But also, maybe a little judgmental? (Okay, a lot judgmental.) And that feeling? That feeling of being silently judged for my fashion crimes? It brought back the green hair memories. And the momentary death wish resurfaced. Not strongly, mind you. Just a little flicker. Like a pilot light.

Seriously though, what was I thinking? The pictures are horrifying. You were right. You were always right. It's infuriating!

Exhibit C: The Wedding Speech Debacle (Or, The Time You Almost Ruined Everything)

Okay, this one is epic. My wedding. The happiest day of my life (so far!). Everything was perfect. The dress, the venue, the handsome groom (who, thankfully, you never tried to steal). And then… the speeches.

You were my maid of honor. Naturally. And you were supposed to give a heartwarming, witty, and slightly embarrassing speech about our friendship. What you actually delivered was… well, it was a roast. A brutal, hilarious, and deeply mortifying roast.

You recounted every single embarrassing moment of my life. The green hair, the bad boyfriends, the questionable fashion choices… you even brought up the time I accidentally set the kitchen on fire trying to make toast! It was a comedy goldmine. For everyone else. I was dying. Slowly. In front of all my friends and family.

My face was bright red. My husband was trying not to laugh. My mother was giving you the "I’m watching you" glare. And I? I was fantasizing about throwing you off the balcony. Okay, maybe just tripping you. But the death wish? Oh, it was back. Stronger than ever. Fueled by mortification and cheap champagne.

But here's the thing: despite the initial shock and horror, it was hilarious. And everyone loved it. And looking back, I wouldn't have had it any other way. It was the most memorable, most honest, most "us" speech ever. Even if it did make me want to bury myself alive at the time.

The Resolution: Why I'm Glad You're Still Alive (And Annoying)

So, yeah, there were times. Times when I wished you were gone. Vanished. Erased from the fabric of existence. But you know what? I didn’t mean it. Okay, maybe I meant it a little. But mostly, I was just being dramatic. Like always.

Because here's the truth: you're the peanut butter to my jelly, the cheese to my macaroni, the questionable fashion choice to my even more questionable fashion choice. You’re the person who knows all my secrets, all my flaws, all my embarrassing moments. And you love me anyway. Or at least tolerate me. Which is basically the same thing, right?

You challenge me, you annoy me, you make me laugh until my sides hurt. You’re the only person who can tell me the truth, even when I don’t want to hear it (especially about my fashion choices). You’re my rock, my confidante, my partner in crime. Even when the crime is something as simple as eating an entire pizza in one sitting.

And yeah, you still annoy me sometimes. You still leave your hair in the shower drain. You still borrow my clothes without asking. You still have a habit of interrupting me mid-sentence. But you know what? I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Because life would be incredibly boring without you. And who would I complain to about my questionable fashion choices? Who would remind me of all my embarrassing moments? Who would tell me when I’m being ridiculous? (Besides my husband, obviously.)

So, thank you, Sarah. Thank you for being you. For all the good, the bad, and the downright ridiculous. Thank you for sticking by me, even when I probably deserved to be abandoned. And thank you for not actually dying, despite all my fleeting death wishes. You're the best. Even when I want to strangle you.

Now, about that time you borrowed my favorite sweater and never returned it…