Dear Victoria,
Two years ago, we would have laughed together at someone wearing those pants. But there you are, just dancing along the grass, plaid and chain clad. Two years ago, you would have made snide remarks under your breath, sarcastic and coated with admiration, at the people you now reside with so coolly. Then again, two years ago you wouldn’t have dared to touch a stick of eyeliner. Let alone one surely tested on animals.
I guess I was stupid to map out our futures together, the stereotypical stuff (marrying twins and owning side-by-side white picket dream houses) and the our-thing stuff (plot a riot to shut down the slaughterhouses for good). As I sit here and flat out stare, your once sharp and observant mind fails to impress me. Still not used to it. I wonder if I ever will be.
You’re making me such a hypocrite; I hate whiny little girls who can’t just stand up and tell it like it really is. Yet, still I remain sitting, imagining all these scenes of the two of us in my head: me telling you off, you fighting back – not to impress your new friends, but because fighting back is what you do. It’s your forte. Remember – I would paint the signs for the protest; you’d pump up the crowds with your screaming voice? Well, I do. I wish you were still my partner in crime. But you’ve left me no choice: if I had to choose between you being my friend now or losing you forever, I’d choose the latter. I miss who you were, but I sure as hell don’t miss you.
Baggy pants and dyed hair and eyes ringed with kohl – that’s what you’ve become. You’ve been underground for so long I bet you can’t remember what it’s like when you come back up to live. I hear the rumors, my dear, the flittering words that feature the one and only (Thank God?): you. “That Victoria girl, I hear she’s run away from home,” “I’ve heard that Victoria Shilling’s traveled the globe and gone on a full blown European tour.”
But a true friend knows that everything they say is a lie. You? Leaving the country? Don’t make me laugh. Fortunately, the rumors don’t make me laugh. They leave me full of fire; you don’t help the cause by letting them continue to burn. But you sure help THEIR cause, speaking just to hear yourself speak, the words coming out nonstop, unwanted like vomit. You start the rumors you used to despise.
You’ve always said you were going to change the world. You’ve always known you were different, and you still are, under the plastic you’ve molded to yourself. But back then, you didn’t tell everyone in sight just how different you really were. Now you’re “random” and “weird” and “a total geek.” You used to be brilliant. Now you’re a fading star. Just like everyone else. But, hey, whatever builds up your self esteem, I guess.
Congratulations, present-day Victoria. You’re a teenager who’s angry at the world, you plan to revolt against things you have no faith in, and by God, random is stupid is funny. Forget changing the world – all you’ve done is change yourself. Into a stereotype. It suits you well.

With everlasting love,




Your (True) Best Friend (Forever)