Back then, you made best friends with the stoner chick in art history when she gave you a ticket to the show for your birthday. Friendship was catalyzed by general education requirements and bonded by the shared love of a band. And lsd.
When you broke up with your boyfriend, she came over with a bag of groceries and rented vhs tapes for a marathon power lounging sess. She made you watch “The Joy Luck Club” and “The Color Purple” and you both cried and cried the messy hiccup-y cry that soon mushrooms into a dark lamentation of All That Is Wrong With The Dream. Shitty boyfriends, detached boomer parents, and deforestation of our beloved redwoods, and what about the rainforest? Why was there so much unkindness?
We loved Julia Butterfly Hill, we wanted our apartments to look like a Joni Mitchell Song. We had no idea how beautiful we were. We chased after boys who also failed to realize how beautiful we were.
Back then, when you fainted and she ditched you in the balcony at the Warfield for a cute hippie dude with floor tickets, you started to learn more about friendship. And hippies. Later, when you had plans to share a house with a puppy in the yard and a vegetable garden, she moved in with the guy you both bought weed from. She got pregnant.
You stopped speaking to her. You started to hang out with an eccentric group of artists or intellectuals or generic college students. You added reggae and hip hop to the mix tape collection. You traded in your Birkenstocks for combat boots. You started to wear a bra. You finished growing up without her.
Decades later, when you meet again on Facebook, she will send you a hostile email about what a lousy friend you were because you stopped talking to her. You learn that she had to move back home to her parents in Nebraska (or Long Beach, or Akron, or Scottsdale), her mom died in a car accident, she once had to work at a strip club in Minnesota in the late 90s, she is an alcoholic.
You miss her.
Both of you are right to be angry.