My best friend died. He was closer to a brother. He did most of my tattoos, he was the first person to talk to me on the school bus when I moved from PA to NC. From then we were close the rest of his life.
I wrote this today and posted it on his Facebook:
It’s been two years. In some ways it doesn’t feel as long. In other ways it feels longer.
The worst part about it is that before you caught pneumonia, you were steadily improving. You could walk a bit. You could go up stairs - which was huge. You had a plan to get out of there and rejoin society. You were starting to make it back.
Your absence has left me with a stark reminder of how few real friends I have and how precious those friendships are.
It mattered to me that I was able to go see you nearly every weekend. It was important that we could roll around in the Soul, being silly like we were in high school, singing hair metal songs at the top of our lungs.
We had a bond like brothers. There were times when we were angry at each other over petty shit. There were times we didn’t speak for months. But at the same time, there was always love.
Now that you’re gone, I realize I don’t have many male friends anymore. I don’t have any that were as close as you. I don’t have anyone who really appreciates my fucked-up humor. I don’t have anyone who I can text random brain droppings. I don’t have anyone who excitedly sends me the art they’re working on. I don’t have anyone who sends me inappropriate jokes, strange drawings, or anything like that.
You still linger on, though. The Fuckyounicorn, one of your lotus flowers, and the pinup Michaelangelo on a pizza box still hang in my view.
Your sense of humor still infects me. I’ll find myself chuckling at conversations we had years ago. “Love a crazy thing. Love like butt-nekkid wit a cheese sammich.”
I miss you, fucker.