When I first moved from Chicago back to Baltimore in 1997, I had never seen “Friends.” I also did not get any television reception in my new apartment, so I spent two more Friendless years. The closest I came was when I briefly dated a man who, so astonished at this hole in my experience, dragged out his personal stash of video tape recordings with the idea of forcing me to watch the entire series to date. “I want to introduce you to my friends,” he announced smugly, an approach that saw me fleeing into the night before the first episode was over.

Not until I moved in with Michael (who had cable) and absorbed his viewing habits did I make any effort to watch the program, and I eventually came to feel rather warmly toward it. The writing was consistently amusing, and the characters were not as much of the caricatures that they might have been (and eventually became). I developed a little crush on Ross, of all people, who was passionately goofy in the way I wanted to be (and in the way Rob actually is, although he for some reason identifies more with the icky Chandler).

Anyway, I watched the series finale last night, uncomfortably conscious of a country full of people out there beating their breasts over the loss of their dear imaginary friends.

I, on the other hand, New Yorker that I have become, spent the whole episode bemoaning the loss of an imaginary rent-controlled apartment.