This essay is apart of a larger, unfinished project in which I attempt to chronicle the people I love. When I write about people, I often do so in a faux-academic, flowery, but playful tone. I like to make bold statements and end with a string of words that haunts the reader long after it’s over. With all else staying consistent, today the haunting words come first: you killed yourself.
After we first met, we went on to share a room, to smoke a million joints, to laugh, to viciously fight, to accidentally wake each other up in the middle of the night, to play tricks, and to plot the demise of the anal girl who told us to move out of her way twice. And sometimes things were fun between us and sometimes things were weird. Either way, our interactions were always heartbreakingly human.
While my heart hurts too much to get into details, there are things I will say about you:
You were an artist; an acutely positive, exceedingly jumpy human who couldn’t read social cues but had a flaming sense of sincerity. You were overwhelmingly eccentric and unapologetically queer. While I hate to romanticize your death, lately I’ve been recklessly thinking that maybe you were too rare, too wild, too ethereal to be loved by this world.
Anyways, I don’t know where you are or if you can read this: I just want to say thank you for February 1st– thank you for looking me dead in the eye on the worst day of my life and handing me your last shot of tequila.