The two friends I took to dinner with me on my nineteenth birthday are fighters. They fight for their opinions, their ways, justify their madness. They stand up for themselves, for each other, for the ones they love, for everything they believe in.
And the one and only reason they ever fought with me was to make me believe that I’m so much more than I am. I don’t think they could ever actually argue with me–it’s not in them and it’s surely not in me. I love them to death.
She inspired me to become a writer when she told me being a writer is all about making normal, boring things sound interesting, make it into a story. I have lived off of her quote since the day she said it last October when my first college English paper was due. She constantly reminds me that if ever I face times of adversity and rejection and neglect, it’s not because of me, it’s simply the people around me making misjudgments and wrongly conceptualizing and misconstruing my story.
He told me that people really can be idiots and that I am my own unique person and if people don’t agree with me or what I believe in, they’re not in the right place. He constantly convinces me that my dreams are not stupid at all because he’s had some of the same crazy dreams I’ve had, much to my surprise.
For my birthday, they made it very clear they didn’t want to make any decisions for me on “my day,” they called it. And they refused to let me pay for dinner, they told me they’ll all do whatever comes to my mind, they never let me hold a door for them. They told me a “pretty girl” like me should enjoy her birthday.
And after stealing flowers from every single bush we passed, strolling around the center, they handed me a lovely arrangement of handpicked blooms, straight from mall property and straight from their hearts, meaning more than twelve stems from the grocer ever will.
“Every girl deserves flowers,” they argued simply.