I’m working to tame the messy jumble of muck in my head that spits out phrases like “messy jumble of muck” because, frankly, muck isn’t something that jumbles, is it?
Did his insurance company not get the memo that his heart disease was discovered via autopsy?
My worst nightmare, basically, has come true. There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just blankly blurt it out as if it doesn’t twist my insides into a million knots.
I’ve been known to leave gatherings without saying goodbye — certainly during panic attacks, of course, but even at other times when I’m feeling perfectly fine. To me, it’s an anticipatory social anxiety thing.
Right now, no matter what tomorrow holds, you are alive. And how? Who knows. It’s a brilliant and temporary mystery.
They mistook his death for a mere disinterest in social media. But no. He was dead, and Facebook made every effort to remind me daily.
Visiting Bubba’s Facebook page allows me to see photos of him in his prime — as the fun-loving guy I want to remember him as. Visiting a grave site would just allow me to see a chunk of stone with his name on it.
My 25-year-old friend can’t be dead. He just watched a movie. People who just watched a movie and posted about it on Facebook can’t die. No. No no no no no.