It's not hard to be a friend of Gimme's. Not hard at all. To be my friend you must simply be:
Intelligent. Way, way above what appears to me to be a breathtakingly low average and ideally just a little bit smarter than me. Just a little mind you. I'm easily intimidated.
Not a complete cunt. Note the qualification. Plenty of my count 'em on one hand friends are cunts, but not one thumb of them crosses the line to cunt completeness.
Brilliant. In one way or another. You might be very good at table tennis. You might knit a mean scarf. But there will be at least one thing that you can do that takes my breath away on a regular basis. Well done, you.
Possessed of a high level of moody fuckhead tolerance. Really, you random readers have no idea. Okay, you probably have some idea, but even if you do, you don't. And even if you're one of the friends under discussion, you're probably unaware of just how much tolerance you're showing. If you were aware you wouldn't be nearly so tolerant.
A little bit sexy. Oh yeah. No friend of mine, boy or girl, man nor beast (I have no beast friends) is without a tilt of the head, a sway of the hip or a smile of alluring crookedness that makes the Gimme go 'mmmmm'. What can I tell you? It's the fucked up way I'm built.
Happy to listen to me rant and rave in a manner so bitter, incoherent and down-right nasty as to make the shit that is to be read here on Stranded seem like the collected work of a gleefully re-animated Eleanor H. Potter.
And that's it. Easy, huh?
You'd think I'd have more friends.