In my post-grad year of college, I had literally the best year of my life. Everyone I was with was the best person ever. We partied like we were fighting for our right to do so. I was sleeping on people's couches more than my own bed most nights, and I even managed to convince actual women that hanging out with me wasn't terrifying. I swear it happened. There's a photo somewhere. Just trust that I was having a good time. I loved those guys like a kid with gluten sensitivity loves gluten-free cake.
Once that year ended, the solid dozen really strong friendships I'd forged fucked off like Final Destination characters. Within two months, not even emails were being answered. No one had the time anymore. Everyone had left town. Everyone had a job. Everyone had something better to do. Those friendships were some of the best I ever had, the most fun I ever had. And they had the lifespan of a particularly robust housefly.
Hollywood didn't exactly help me learn how to deal with that. We've all eaten a thousand helpings of pop-culture shit casserole, as they teach us over and over and over the lessons of "nothing is more important than friends." From over-the-top explicit messages to subtle storylines that feature a hero and their bestie, that shit has been going on since Gilgamesh and Enkidu. And even the stories that actually deal with losing friends either paint one friend as toxic and in need of being excised or it's a relationship that gets mended and everyone learns a valuable lesson. Yay! I never got my lesson. Even if I was the toxic one. Who tells you this shit?
Of the various internal questions you'll have about yourself in life, "What is wrong with me?" is the hardest to both ask and answer. Because recognizing it takes a hell of an existential beatdown. The first reaction is to assume something is wrong with other people. We're conditioned to believe this. We hear things like "if Gary shits in your shoe he's not a real friend" and "Susie doesn't deserve you if she can't handle your prolapse." The problem is always someone else, because you're the top dog. But say no one can handle your prolapse. Say 100 people in 100 days running screaming from your knife-wielding parasitic twin. Then you start considering the possibility the shit end of the stick is in your hand. And when little Kuato uses it to stab people, that makes them unhappy.