They say only the good die young. Well that's shit, but I wish it were true.
Weej was brilliant, and wicked, and magnificent, and big-hearted, and conniving, and mischievous, and brilliant. And never in his life was he anything as bland and pedestrian as merely "good". Oatmeal is "good". Weej was chipotle-marinated spare ribs with garlic-truffle-oil potato mash, a glass of Shiraz, and a double espresso to follow. And probably one of those horrible smoke-sticks of his too. Weej could fill an empty room with a grin.
I read about other people dealing with death, and many say they find comfort in the idea of a god. I'd never dream of taking away anyone's solace at a time like this even if I could - so I'll hide this self-absorbed rant away on this backwater blog where it won't bother anyone. But I've got to get it out. I want to scream it from a rooftop. How could this make you want to worship a god? I want to _invent_ one, just so I can hunt the fucker down and kick his lily-white arse! If I actually believed one was real I'm not sure I could stop myself from writing "Yeah? Well Fuck You Too!" on the side of a mountain in 40-foot letters made of burning bibles. Keep your fucker of a god; I want my friend back.
