Yeah, no one liked that last post. As in, literally, no one [active verb meaning to signal approval by clicking on “Like”] liked that post. Especially not me.
No one wants you, suicide post. Get bent!
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I went to my friend’s memorial service yesterday. The lesson there is, Don’t Do Drugs. Or, if you do them, don’t do them alone in an empty house sitting on a mattress on the floor with a shitbag “friend” who takes the $100 in your wallet when you pass out, and leaves you without calling 911.
No, definitely don’t do that.
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A world away, but in the same neighborhood of grief, my cousin’s wife memorialized him on Monday. She is doing ok, as is his father (my uncle), who lost my aunt to Alzheimer’s five years ago. They are both alone now (no grandkids from that union), but bonded to one another in heartbreak. My family will convene in a few weeks to bury my cousin’s ashes with his mother in a lovely New England cemetery. No one will utter the word “suicide,” because we are not the kind of people who talk about such things, let alone do them.
* * * * *
I will write more about these sad, strange events in due time, I am sure, as I am fascinated by how the storytelling has evolved in both of these tragic situations. In the meantime, I am a fully articulated human being who does not live every moment in introspection. To prove it, here I am petting a goat:
Goats are awesome, kind of like dogs that bleat. I highly recommend petting one at your soonest convenience, because when you are petting a goat, or eating a caramel apple, or riding a ferris wheel, it is very difficult to ponder anything, besides whether the meth addict who strapped you in remembered to check the safety thingamajig, or who first discovered the genius of the apple-caramel-peanut combo (on a stick, no less!), or how badly that goat wants to eat your hoodie string or your shirtsleeve or your hair.
We’ll call it County Fair-apy. And we could all use a little of it now and then.