I was once told that friendships last forever. I learned that on an episode of "Dragon Tales," and despite the fact that a show about unsupervised children gallivanting with monsters was probably not a good source of advice, I truly believed there were some unbreakable bonds that could transcend lifetimes. But when I grew older, I saw that nothing lasts forever. Clothes fade, bikes rust, and friendships die.

In second grade, I became "BFFs" with the only girl in class who was my height. "Us tall girls have to stick together," she said, and that's exactly what we did. We stuck together. For a while.

The summer before third grade, I had to move. We swore that we'd call each other every day, and write long, extravagant letters, no matter how much postage cost. We said we'd always be Best Friends Forever. Needless to say, that was the first time I ever broke the sanctity of a pinky promise.

I'd like to think of that friendship as one of the pivotal moments of my childhood: our teachers called us soul sisters, and that had to mean something. But 11 years later, I can't even remember her name. I think it started with a "K."

Although I largely attribute that loss of contact to my sudden move and our lack of phone accessibility, this was the first of a pattern. My friendship with "K" was the first casualty in the war against lost time.

The friends I made in middle school are the most memorable. I remember those three wretched years with clarity and embarrassment. I was just starting to figure out who I was and what I wanted to be. I was an ugly awkward mess (I still am), and I think back on my friends back then with fondness and gratitude.

Especially the "C" lunch crew. We were the most obnoxious pre-teens that graced the campus. We sang chorus songs quite loudly and harmonized like we were making a prequel to "High School Musical." We were the "ultimate squad goals" before that term was even coined. Even now, I can't quite recreate that friend group. I almost don't want to. I'm nostalgic. I'm longing for something that's no longer there.

Of course, I'm friends with them on Facebook. Yes, I'm proud to be the 11th like on their Instagram photos. But despite the fact that I met my best friend in that group (going on nine years- shout out to Enette), I know I can't recapture what my middle school squad had no matter how hard I tried.

(And I did try.)

High school was a war zone. And the friends you meet during a war are life-long friends. At least that's what was supposed to happen.

The friends I've kept in contact with since graduation are people that I can't shake loose. They survived what I dub the "Post Grad Scourge" and there aren't many groups that are still together after freshman year of college, much less those who don't bear at least a few wounds.

Group phone calls suddenly have these strange awkward pauses, where before you never ran out of things to say. You make flaky plans with each other and cancel last minute. Slowly but surely, you check up on each other less and less, and not out of friendship, but out of obligation.

Making friends in high school was sorta like making friends in prison. Yeah, you'll keep in touch with a few, but after you've served your time, what are the chances you'll pick up the phone and accept all those collect calls?

Truth is, after we get our diplomas or move on to the real world (whatever that is), we grow up. And sometimes we grow apart.

Still, although our contact is limited to a retweet on Twitter and some insincere yearbook messages, the friends, good and bad, past and present, have made me who I am. Whether they remember my name in eleven years (it starts with a "V"), they have built me, brick by brick, stone by stone. And for that, I will always post "Happy Birthday" on their Facebook walls.