Hey Asshole,
I have another baby on the way you won't get to meet.
You assholes didn't have your own kids, none of you, so my kids were "your kids" even though I was nothing but your friend's sister.
You bunch of Darwinian failures.
I know you still expect me to write your story.
But it doesn't come through as "write my story bitch" anymore. Now its more like a "that would be cool."
You know what would have been cool?
You not taking the easy way out.
You not leaving us wondering if we could have done more.
You taking responsibility for your own life.
You not sending a "care package" to your mom, leaving the last bit of blame on her.
You not jumping off that damned bay bridge.
Not long after you left that stupid bridge took another life.
Not that it took yours, you freely gave it, you fucking coward.
The guy was delivering oranges, he turned too fast, the oranges shifted, his little orange truck turned over, right over that damned bridge.
More fatherless children.
People who want to live.
And you, you just gave it up.
I KNOW your anniversary is in February. Don't know what date as we can only guess how long it took for your bloated body to pop on shore and scare some tourists.
Fuck those tourists, I hope the were colonizers, see what they did to our men. Turned them into little pussies who can't even live.
So yeah, I know I am a month late but fuck you. I am still mad at you.
Even if you were NOT my friend. Just my sister's friend.
Yes, I will write your story. One day, about the girlfriend you denied loving, about the kid in the back of the moving truck, about the leather jacket wearing guy who made the girl plunge the roses out of the garbage disposal, about you scaring us through our mailbox, about that trip to your cousins house with that god-awful HIV ridden boyfriend of yours you used to fuck without condoms.
I should have known you didn't value life.
Yet my dumbass always felt safe with you.
Fuck off, its not time to write your story yet.
Maybe when you would have turned 50...
Maybe 60...
Maybe never.
Maybe your story doesn't deserve to be told, just like your family didn't believe you needed a burial spot.
I am sorry I am still angry.
I beg for forgiveness.
But them I am reminded that it is MY responsibility to tell your story and all I can think is:
FUCK YOU. You should still be living it.
