Julian, we were not good friends, but you did not call me on my shit when you should have, I would have said yes if you had asked me to prom, though my actual prom date has been dead for three years now so I guess I have poor taste, but I am so sorry I never spined up to re-connect with you and while I am glad you died in the act of protecting our country, which we argued about tremendously, I am so fucking sad you died in the act of protecting our country. You were on my list of people to talk to at Reunion, and look how I focus my grief on myself, and not the 21 year old Marine who was just killed in Afghanistan because he loved this stupid fucking country who trains quiet, sort of bookish boys how to be killed in a desert, and you would be so mad that I said that. But I said it. I’m so sorry and so sad and I have so much practice focusing my grief (is it grief) through myself, and internalizing it, and I know you are rolling your eyes, somewhere, not here, not on Fort Reno, not at Guapo’s not in Afghanistan. I am just so sorry and so sad.
You are very good at soccer, there I said it, are you happy now? Am I happy now?
In other news, all of my causal friends die when I am drinking in the same apartment, maybe I should stop going there, if this is a sign or something, it’s a shitty fucking sign.
Bring it, Summer. My sadness knows no bounds, I will awe you with the breadth of my grief, I am capable of multitudes, I carry a thousand little tragedies in my heart, they are spilling into my lungs, they cling to my ribs, what’s one more, 3 more, 100 more? My despair is quiet and silent and deep, it rests against the Earth’s core, it subducts whatever it meets, who is next, just tell me who is next, please, so I can say goodbye for once, at least once.