She doesn't come to mind all that often, and I'm glad.

So odd. We knew each other inside out--I doubt I'll never know anyone that well again, or vice versa--and it turned out to be too much. The pooling of wardrobes, the telepathic phone calls, the absurd games, and then everything got tangled into the mess of duplicity it took forever for me to pick my way out of.

Two acid-tongued drama queens not afraid to bear grudges. Not liable to end well, that combination.

I talked to her once since then, via an accidental IM. She misses me, apparently, and still thinks about me. I'm through feeling sorry for her and at this point can manage little more than a very vague smugness. It's been over a year, at any rate. And I half-hope she manages to get a handle on herself, but also half-hope she gets her comeuppance, insomuch as I hope for anything regarding her at all.

Happy birthday, you darling little whore. May you choke on the yields of your current flavor/straighten out your beautifully muddled mind/learn to thrive off something other than attention. Do something, just so long as you don't stay the way you were when I last knew you.

There are reasons I don't think of her often.