Nobody talks about the single friend. Not in a way that’s truly relevant. Sure, there’s discourse on shit like: third wheeling, coping with occasional loneliness, being interrogated on who you’re dating, and if nobody, then why you’re not dating (because I’m still getting my shit together, Charli!). But I want to address the real elephant in the room.
It’s draining. Despite your long-term single-hood, your friends insist on coming to you with their relationship problems, as if you’re the know-all for why niggas continue to leave their drawls on the floor and never buy them flowers. You somehow become the ultimate love guru, preaching to students shit that goes in one ear and right the fuck out the other. Yet they keep signing up for your sermons. They keep going to your confessional, begging for forgiveness, for patience, for respect, for actual love. And you give it to them, of course, even though you’re not the source of their spiritual demise. It’s comforting, momentarily. That reassurance that they are awesome, that they’re better than how they’re being treated, and that they deserve all the love and respect in the world…until they go right back to acting like they’re not. Until they go right back to worshipping these niggas like they’re…God. Putting roaches on pedestals.
And so, the cycle repeats. Weeks turn into months, months turn into years, and sometimes, unfortunately, years turn into decades.
You continue to be the shoulder to cry on, the emotional turmoil dump where people empty their loads in hopes of feeling light enough to carry on. And maybe that’s all they need. Rather than asking them to blink twice if they’re in danger and warning them to run before these vampires suck them dry, maybe you just need to shut the fuck up and take it like a good girl.
Maybe, you talk too fucking much. Maybe you’re wasting your breath when you need to be choking on their metaphorical dicks. Oh, you thought that because you’re single, you could abstain from getting fucked? Or did you think you’d be doing the bending?
“I went through his phone and caught him messaging other girls,” — *stroke*
“He’s following a bunch of IG models,” — *stroke*
“He has me wash his skid-marked boxers and doesn’t say thank you,” — *strokes faster*
“He cusses me out when I don’t make his coffee right,” — *long strokes*
“He laughed in my face when I expressed how he hurt my feelings,” — *stokes even faster* “I’m finna cum”
“He gave me chlamydia but swears he was drunk and it was an accident,” — “Haah… Uugh.. Aaah…Aaahh….you like that, you dirty little slut?”
“But he says that he loves me,” — *slap*
“But we’ve been together this long,” — *smack*
“But he got me this ring,” — *scratch*
“But-but-but-but-b-,”
But then you’re left, filled and empty at the same time. Pimped out with no money to show for it. Eiffel towered with no aftercare. Buried under bodies of shame, because where else could they possibly go?
Helpless, they give away their power and you too are left feeling powerless. They do everything under the sun but fucking leave, and so, under the guise of friendship, you suffer too. Them, with their rose colored glasses, and you, left with the shit stains of clarity. Of reality. So no matter how loud you scream. Yell. No matter how you word the truth. No matter what tone you use, they will never hear you until they crawl out of the grave they dug themselves and rid the dirt from their ears. And somehow, despite intentionally separating yourself far from the maggots of society, you still wind up getting stuffed full of them.
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