This could well be the last thing I ever write. How depressing.
Today, according to the Mayans (or, more accurately, people who have chosen to misinterpret the Mayans) is THE ACTUAL BLOODY APOCALYPSE.
Given that the world could start exploding at any moment, you'd expect me to be out getting drunk or eating something that the myfitnesspal app would disapprove of, wouldn't you? But no.
Due to the possibility of impending death, this evening I found myself involved in a discussion about the things that would haunt me in my final moments - the things I never got to do. Some people had places they wanted to visit or foreign beers they wanted to drink, but I couldn't let myself off that lightly.
After a horrendously honest conversation (mostly one-sided, and not in the way that I enjoy) earlier this week, I have been more than a little bit preoccupied with the amount of emotional damage I go around causing.
While said conversation succeeded in punching a hole through my chest, it also brought up some other stuff.
Once upon a time, there was a girl.
She was as warm and bright as I am cold and disapproving. Such was the contrast between us, in fact, that people often expressed surprise that we were so close. But we saw it another way. Together, we were like one properly functioning person.
Although we'd been friends since we were eleven, we got really close when we were fifteen. Her boyfriend was in a metal band and, together, we discovered how much nicer that kind of music sounds when you've had a few drinks. When offered a place at a prestigious Sixth Form a year or so later, I turned it down so that I wouldn't have to miss her for five days a week for the next two years. And as I looked at universities, knowing that she wasn't coming with me, I kept my options within commuting distance.
We were, to the chagrin of our respective boyfriends and other less high-ranking friends, planning a lovely little future together.
But then, right before we took our final exams, we had an argument. A stupid one, really.
We both said some stuff. I said more, because THAT IS JUST WHAT I DO. And then we just didn't talk anymore.
It was as sudden as it sounds, I'm afraid.
Shortly after, I went off to university and made friends with people who were entirely too much like me, and she got a good job and found people who - even from my jealous and agonised perspective - were just a much better fit for her.
I have never directly apologised for what happened between us (and neither has she, by the way) but I should have - regardless of how little that would have achieved.
Apologising, I thought, would have merely been a way of inflicting myself on her for that little bit longer. She was better off without me, so - considering that I thought we could never possibly go back to how we were - why not have a clean break? What difference would an apology make?
(Here we have an epiphany. It may not seem like one, given that I am told that this is just COMMON SENSE to most people, but I have honestly never considered that my walking away was anything but a good deed.)
That apology, however awkward or laboured or fruitless, would have told her that she meant something to me. That, despite everything that I'd said and done, I wanted her to be as okay as she could be, whether or not it meant that she forgave me.
I should have apologised.
We should have made up.
You know what else should have happened? We should have grown old together.
BUT THAT'S A BIT TOO SAD TO THINK ABOUT TODAY.
So, if you are reading this - and I hope that you are - I'm sorry. And I miss you.
And, also, good luck with the apocalypse.