Perhaps the problem, as I postulated in a recent (and, as yet, unanswered) email to you, is a simple one: out of sight, out of mind, if you will. I realize that it's always been difficult for you to face up to your responsibilities, and I also realize that in some twisted way you are convinced that this is entirely my fault; that I am out to get you; that I'd love nothing more than to see you suffer.

What you've never been able to understand, and perhaps have never even tried to understand, is that you are a human sponge. You absorb as much as you can hold from people -- be it money, shelter, or even basic kindness and trust -- and when you are saturated, you wring yourself dry so you can start all over again with a new victim. Of course all the new victim sees is your tear-stained face and your melancholy eyes, and upon questioning, you will confess: you gave so much to this person, everything you had, *more* than everything, even, and all that person did was cause you pain, create unsolvable problems for you; for no reason at all, these people for whom you claim to have done so much set out to deliberately, methodically destroy you, and it rends your soul in two.

And of course, your victims are all soft-hearted types, trusting types -- not necessarily naive, exactly, but undoubtedly unfamiliar with the pathological quality of your manipulation and deceit.

So I've been doing some thinking. I've tried to remember what it is that you've done for me, what it is you've contributed to my well-being through the years. And about all I can come up with is, while you were here, you bought groceries once. You, like me, made trips to the deli to buy cigarettes; you, like me, took out trash and washed dishes.

You also used my deodorant, my shampoo, my towel. You monopolized my telephone for 17 consecutive days. You became annoyed and bitter when, at moments, I preferred my own company to yours, when I didn't want to spend each and every moment you were *not* on the phone entertaining you, spilling out my soul to you, listening to you talk endlessly about soulmates and true love and weddings and future children with ridiculous names. Your selfishness shines through brilliantly in your choice for your someday-daughter's name -- have you considered, even for a moment, that any child burdened with the name Artemis Tiger is doomed to a childhood of taunts, insults, and unpopularity, and likely an adolescence of cursing you for causing such unnecessary grief?

I told you more than once that some things you were doing were bothering me tremendously. That lying on my bed in my bedroom talking on the phone for hours -- invading *my* space, shutting me out of the only respite in the world I had from the enormity of YOU -- was just not acceptable. And yet the night before you left, there you were again -- spending my birthday sprawled on my floor, talking on my phone, running up a bill I would eventually have to pay, while Chris and I sat in the living room, listening to music, becoming more amazed by your behavior by the second. My birthday. The last day you were here.

I already know your argument to this, and I urge you to not embarrass yourself by saying it aloud again. You're right. In Amy's car, you drove us to the liquor store, where you paid for (I remember) $27 worth of alcohol. What I also remember is my own willingness to pay for $20 of that, even to pay for all of it. After so long, I know how you operate. I knew in that moment that something would happen, that somehow, that particular debt -- which should not have been a debt in the first place -- would be called in.

And, unremarkably enough, it was: "I can't believe you left me $10 short on the rent, and you didn't even tell me." "If I hadn't had to buy all that booze the night before, I would have been fine. But I needed money for a cab," was your reply. As though somehow, in some parallel universe inhabited only by you, you were coerced, forced to pay for a huge amount of liquor that you couldn't afford, as though we'd had an arrangement -- as though you'd said not, "Put your money away; it's your birthday and you're not paying for this" but instead, "OK, I'll cover it but you can pay me back in the morning."

"We both know," I finally had the nerve to say to you directly one night, "that you're never going to pay me back."

You were incensed and angry. "How can you say that? What are you basing that on?"

B, you're not even aware -- you don't want to be aware; you don't want to admit that you let down those who care most about you, again and again and again -- how easy a question that is to answer.

"Because you never have before." Your outrage grew then, and you asked for examples. "That was different," you countered.

How was it different?

How is it different that last summer you left town and left me with over $3000 in jointly-accumulated bills to pay, out of my own pocket? How different is it that you made yourself completely unreachable, that you promised, continually, that you'd send money "tomorrow" or "next week" or "when I get my next check" and you never did?

Do you somehow view that instance as "not counting," because I finally gave up any hope I'd ever see a dime from you?

So this is how it is: every time I've tried to live with you, or participate in anything that required a financial commitment with you, I've been burned in a fantastic way. You must not realize how embarrassing it is to tell people, "I'm sorry I haven't called, but I can't make long distance calls." Or, "My phone's been turned off, and I can't get it reconnected because I can't pay the bill." If I'd created this mess myself it would be one thing; I'd have to accept it, deal with it as best I could, work three jobs to pay for it. But I didn't create this mess -- you did. And conveniently enough, you're not around, as usual, to see the devastation it's caused.

I have a child who doesn't live with me, and I work with a temp agency. I need a telephone. I need to be reachable, and I need to be able to reach people. This is not an unreasonable request. Your actions (or rather, inactions) indicate quite clearly that for whatever reason I was only a stopping-point for you, a layover in the eternal running that is your life. Have you ever considered the value of friendship? Was my friendship worth less to you than a phone bill and one month's rent? I could have, would have, never placed a numerical value on our friendship: you were one of the most important people in the world to me, evidenced well by the hundreds of dollars I spent keeping in touch with you when you were in Los Angeles. I didn't begrudge you this; I never gave it a second thought. People, friendships, relationships, are everything to me; the benefits outweigh the costs each and every time.

And yet you were willing to end a friendship over a phone bill you couldn't afford to pay; you were willing to abuse my trust by using my calling card to accrue over $600 in charges; you are willing to cause me great inconvenience and pain simply because you are too irresponsible to think of the needs of anyone but yourself.

"That was different," you said.

Yes. That time, I forgave you.

Kathy