Dead For My Friend

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Chalk Stories: A Review of My Best Dead Friend

Despite her flaws, I decided to stick with her. Until we stopped.

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Until we gave up. Until the confusion of puberty and the pain of emerging adulthood pushed us out of friendship-love. And I feel tremendously guilty about it. If only I would have stayed friends with her… made her stay friends with me, even when we mutually wanted to turn in our BFF cards. Maybe she would never would have met whoever got her into drugs. Maybe she never would have tried them. Maybe she never would have felt the need for them.

Maybe she never would have overdosed. The sort of girl who never once attended a raging high school party, not only because she never was invited, but also because she imagined that merely opening her mouth around drugs would cause a gallon of cocaine to leap right in.

All My Friends Are Still Dead by Avery Monsen

OK I may not have known how drugs worked…. But then again, what else can? You deserved more time in this world. This world deserves more time with you. How we lived as kids. Conquering the world, the mall, AOL, dance routines, soccer games, weird teachers, and Hebrew school. Sign in Get started.

Jul 14, My childhood best friend is dead. Eaten by, well… you know… But this is real life.


By eighth grade, we rarely hung out. I held her, sobbing, for a long time. We took her home and put her in a box with a soft towel. We sat there, stroking her fur, until the sun went down. And then we sat in the dark. My face hurts from so much sobbing. Paka was much more than just a cat. I got her as a kitten, just a few months old, from a crazy cat lady in Bayport, Long Island, in the spring of But I wanted a companion of my own. I actually named her Paka Potea, which is a Swahili pun.

Funny how we give our loved ones lots of little names. Like butter and bread. I fed her everything and anything, especially fish bits. I was fishing a lot at the time, and Paka got all the stray parts. Of the three cats we live with, Paka was the only one who ate fish.

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She might have gotten a little rotund — OK, a lot rotund — but she was Falstaffian in her loves. Lots of food, lots of love and lots of sunshine. Every morning I had to find where the sun would hit and make sure some fell on the floor for Paka to pick up and play with. I have hundreds of stories about her, but the best is that of our journey from Virginia to Minnesota.

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Holly had left some months before, and I packed all my belongings into a U-Haul truck and set Paka in a carrier on the passenger seat, facing me. It was a 1,mile journey that was about to be made longer: The power steering gave out in Hagerstown, Maryland, and with it the air-conditioning. It was July. Add to this the unhappy coincidence that every goddamn hotel between Ohio and Illinois was booked up, and you have a recipe for a cranky man and a cranky kitty. But Paka was a gamer. After an initial bout of yowling, she just sat there and looked at me, mile after mile.

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She was the sweetest cat ever. By the time we reached St. Paul I was exhausted, and so was kitty. When we reached the apartment, I threw myself on the bed to sleep — and Paka hid underneath. When I finally woke up, I could hear her purring. Most are nice, but a little aloof. Our pretty tuxedo princess Harlequin is a lovely cat, but she comes and goes as she pleases and could do quite well by herself outside; Harlequin is more of a colleague than a pet. No cat was ever like Paka. She came when I called. She knew her name. She knew to never wake me up in the morning.

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But the biting irony is that the only text that remains with light of day belongs to a boy band who, Anya tells us, now perform daily on a cruise ship unable to escape their fans. The futility of the chalking underscores the naivety of the belief that a single transformative encounter with poetry could change the world. But the looming death, the details of which are not revealed until the last third of the play, focuses our attention on the unadorned tale of being young, restless and ready to change the world or at least change the people of Dunedin.

Tribute Poems on the Loss of a Friend

As she comes to the funeral she struggles to hold back her tears. My Best Dead Friend tackles big subjects with a light touch. Its deceptively simple, clever and well worth seeing. Tickets available here. Theatre Similar Posts. Read Time: 8 mins.

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