Not many people dislike me.

Oh, God. Just typing it, I can hear how that must sound.

I promise, though, that I'm not that girl. Not the girl who knows within hours she'll be asked to the junior prom, the one who never spends a Valentine's Day dressed in black. I just mean that I'm a pleaser, I'm pretty good socially, I get along with most non-personality-disordered folk.

Sigh.

But I lost someone close to me recently. And the termination of this friendship has been dev-a-stating. It didn't end in the "I don't feel like calling you back" and maybe "you haven't called me back so there!" way, but in the "I don't want to have to see you again" and "I wish death to your babies and their cats and even their koi" kinda way. Well, not really, but you get the gist.

And I have been obsessed.

I ruminate over what I could have done differently. What I should have done to be a better person, to please the other, to deny Nostradamus and Fate and Time their ways. Hours have been spent contemplating just how I would respond to emails. Days have been devoted to whether we'd know each other again in the future. And I'd complain. and I'd sap, and I'd complain some more. This hurts! I'm not used to this!!! Woe. is. Kris.

And today, like it (poof!) appears to the bleached nitwits of afternoon "stories," it dawned on me: I have been consumed, obsessed, dedicated to a friendship that is no longer, while my Holy Chalice of companionship runneth over.

The people who care for me are ridiculous. (Oh God. Just typing it, I can hear how that must sound. I didn't mean it that way.)

What I meant. Was. I just know the best people. The gal with the beautiful tatoos who will text that she will be wherever I need her, whatever the time. The friend in Ohio who listens to my pain despite her own, who indulges my feline stories and pales not at my perversions. The kindred Seminole with whom I share a wine glass. The best friend in Seattle who probably doesn't know I think of her as much as I do; the best friend in DC who doesn't know that I might love her even more than I do the cats. The playful one, no matter the state. The two blonde/brunette uber-talented women who who hold my heart and who decidedly underestimate their gorgeosity. The beautiful "local" girls who have shared photographs and a blow-up bed in my apartment. The multiple Canadians, who know what good righting (sp?), real friendship and real syrup are made of. The beautiful writer who never frizzes, who meets me for new drinks and new foods. The "en Francais, s'il vous plait?" The beautiful BlogHers. The 25-year-old confidante, a friend for life. And her NYC-trapsing counterpart, a woman never to be phased out.

The bloggers from DC!!!, Seattle, from Michigan, FL, abq, Vegas, CT, NY, PA!, from OH, GA, from LA, CO, NC and from where cheese is moldy milk (and you know you are) whose work addresses I now know, but will only use so they are forced to meet me for drinks someday. The one whose shenanigans I miss. The first readers: the candybars and the vaginas and the inspirational Minnesotan. The gals with two names. The new mom who just bore a baby with a flipped up collar. The three funny ones. The ones I only can wish I'd gone to grad school with (damn, sorry for that dangling preposition, ladies). The slug who had the power to break out into a new relationship, when few things must have been more frightening. The grad school friend in Wisconsin who can't possibly know how often I think of him and his gold car. The one named after a highway with whom I share texts. And the commenter who can't begin to appreciate that I know EXACTLY who they are, even if I don't write back, and that I appreciate the comment and the fact that they even come by this l'il ole site. YOU!!!

My life is so rich.

Damn, I know how that must sound.

What I really meant was . . . ALL MY THANKS.