I was friends with this girl back in highschool (I'll just call her Barbie). She was the perfect example; thin body, blonde hair, big blue eyes. I was always a little jealous of her, I guess, being so perfect. We lost contact for a while when I moved out of state, but when I moved back I found out she developed a meth problem. The next time I talk to her it's over the phone and she's asking me if her boyfriend was there. I was at my friend's house (I'll just call her Casey). Barbie's boyfriend was about to c** between us. I told her he wasn't, but that I hoped she found him. Almost a year later, Casey calls to tell me Barbie died in a car accident, five weeks pregnant with a baby that didn't belong to her boyfriend. I go to her funeral stoned out of my mind and the only thing I can remember was thinking how perfect she didn't look anymore, bloated in her casket with her lips sewn shut. Casey and I never talked about what happened and I never told anyone else. I think it makes me a monster that I don't feel as guilty as I should.