You had an emotional crisis, and I went to you despite my poor physical health because I love you endlessly. I slept on a blow up mattress for seven days straight, and pretended every morning that my Fibromyalgia was under control; I pretended that my right hip, so fucked up from Rheumatoid arthritis didn’t bother me that bad because you needed me, your best friend, to help you through this dark time in your life.
And now, you have the solid gold balls to tell me I’m not a good friend because you had to read online that I was publishing my novel; you think I should have told you beforehand. I tried to tell you beforehand, but you wouldn’t answer my phone calls, or acknowledge my text messages because you were too busy being pissed off that I didn’t need your advice. Funny, right? I could have used your advice, but you wouldn’t answer my calls. You’re the cause of this shit.
And I’m fucking pissed! I’m pissed you had the nerve to call me DISHONEST. Me. Dishonest. Have you met me? Are you motherfucking new here?
I’m not fucking sorry. Even if it means our friendship is over, I’m not fucking sorry. Because taking the blame would be dishonest.