I love my friend Robin.

I’m betting that you have your own version of her – that friend who totally gets you, that friend that you can tell anything to because she knows the absolute worst and loves you anyway.

Robin knows every petty, hateful, cowardly, pissy, hypocritical, narcissistic, vindictive, and spiteful thing I’ve ever done or wanted to do.  She knows every soft spot, every dark spot, and all the things I don’t want god to know just in case there’s an eligibility test for heaven.

She is a mixture of sarcasm, pessimism, optimism, and irreverence.  She makes me laugh.

She absolutely believes I will be just fine because she believes in me, and because I believe in her I accept her diagnosis.

Robin has been my friend for sixteen years.  She’s the person I called at four a.m. when I ate too many pot brownies and thought I was dying.  She’s the one I called when I slept with the wrong person, again.  She’s the one I called when I got my heart ripped out.  She knows it all – every obsession and every wrong decision.

Robin always tells me the truth, except when she knows I really just want her to help me justify something I’m going to do anyway.

I love her, I truly do.