I buried a friend recently.
He would have been 24 this year. Necked himself. Horrible tragedy.
He was ill-informed at the worst of times and actually knew a thing or two about a thing or two at the best.
Also happened to be not too shabby at sound recording after I taught him two days prior. But that’s tooting my own horn and I do enough on here already.
When I heard the news I was angry. angry that I wasn’t there, angry that he broke a promise, angry that I wasn’t a better friend.
While I cannot say he is in a better, pain-free place -for I do not know, I can say in this plane of existence, he shall be missed.
Okay. Pseudo-prose out of the way, on with the blog.
I’m not completely afraid of death. Hell, with the amount of chemicals I ingest into my body for recreational and medical reasons, my lack of exercise and my excess of eating bad food, I’ll be greeted by it sooner than I expect. If you asked me a year and a half ago, I’d be quite happy to cark it at 40 -if only because I missed out on the Forever 27 Club. When I met Kim, I begrudgingly increased that to 60. Giving myself a few more rides on this abhorrent rollercoaster known as adulthood, but not enough to start shitting my jorts at the drop of a hat.
I find it more confronting, I guess. This recent outing was no different. I suppose this is due to my definitive lack of belief in an afterlife, if I had to shoot wildly. Perhaps because I’ve been to more funerals than any other reason to step inside a church or chapel, and I generally am a completely selfish person and don’t like the idea of people I know dropping like fucking flies. I like the friends I have now. I don’t want to have to go out and make more. Do you know how shitty and nerve-wracking that is? I hate people!
But alas, it’s been on the mind a lot. Like, a lot. The recent bout of chest pains haven’t been helping, nor have the times when somehow my flab gets stuck under my ribcage and I spend two minutes adjusting myself and sucking air though my teeth loud enough to resemble a wind-tunnel. Plus everyone is telling me to stop smoking. It’s like it can kill you or something. I don’t get it.
Hypothetically, if I were to die now, right this second just drop fucking dead, I wouldn’t be happy. Accomplished, sure. But unhappy. Not that it would matter, because I’d be dead and I can’t do shit about it. The last few years have been shit, I haven’t done everything I want to do and the last Facebook message I sent was telling someone to effectively fuck off because I made a decision they didn’t like and made me feel like a piece of shit for it.
Maybe I should be happy, says Devil’s Advocate me. I’ve made short films, I ran a successful webcomic, I made music which two people enjoyed, I write shit on here which two different people enjoy, I do what I enjoy for what one could loosely call a living, and I’m in a relatively happy relationship. Hell, I interviewed John Romero once. All that has got to count for something, right?
I guess -and here’s when reality kicks in, I don’t like the idea of being forgotten. A mere insignificant blip on somebody’s radar until they find something better to cling to. I’m not asking for fame, or even that much fortune -just enough to pay off my loan. But to be remembered as someone who -at one point, existed, did a bunch of shit and somehow played a role in people’s lives. Even if said role was being photographed falling down a flight of stairs.
I guess it also comes down to I’ve only just figured out that I too can have a purpose in life and not just take on nametag and hairnet jobs because that’s what everyone does. So you know, more time on that particular ride would be nice. Seeing if this whole “slowly becoming a dodgy media mogul” thing actually pans out and I can earn a decent wage on a regular basis.
Maybe it’s all pointless thinking about this now while I still have mileage left in this wheezing meat-carcass I call a body. But it’s been on the mind nonetheless. A constant reminder to value what I have, who I have to share it with and where I’m sharing it. A constant reminder that if you’re not moving even just an ant’s-dick in length toward your goals, you aren’t accomplishing shit.
Oh yeah, and if you’re going to be remembered for anything, make sure you’re not going to be remembered as an asshole. ESPECIALLY one who writes a fucking blog.
Till next time.