It's a strange thing when a good friend dies. Everything kind of jumbles and there's this weird disconnect from reality. Almost as if you don't think about it maybe there's a chance it's not true.
But you do think about it. The good, the bad, the weird. And if you're like me, you avoid talking about it until you give yourself repeated migraines and explosive diarrhea.
Because, you know, party is my middle name.
My friend was an intensely private, insecure, flawed, wonderful person. I have so many stories she was a part of. She would have hated having her life told with her in a starring role as the idyllic, perfect friend who is a thing of legend. Hell, she'd probably hate having her life told at all.
She was stubborn and judgey and spiteful and confusing. She made no secret of the fact that I became a little more stupid in her eyes because I am so amused by Will Ferrell movies but we once got into a huge, screaming fight because I couldn't make her understand that 300° is 300° whether it's in an oven, a grill, or a convection oven because she couldn't separate it from the wattage of a microwave being more or less powerful so one minute in one microwave might be the same as three minutes in another because they were different sizes. And at the same time she could be counted on to be my biggest supporter and cheerleader (when we weren't fighting over stupid shit) who regularly told me and believed I sold myself short, dated beneath me, that I never give myself enough credit for who I am, and she treated me like an emotional genius for things that would be her stories to tell, not mine.
She was funny, and caring, and supportive.
We had amazing times together. When she was in the moment, surrounded by friends, she was joy. I sometimes regret, and probably will more so now, that I always took so many pictures because she hated... hated...pictures of herself. She judged herself so harshly that it would put a smudge on a memory that didn't deserve to be there. But she's not here now so I'm glad I have them.
And maybe it's because of that as much as anything that for all of the parties, and the fights, and the good times, and the extraordinary times that I'm choosing to remember me falling out of her car, stone cold sober, ass first. There I was, ass on the pavement, feet in the car, looking up at her confused and in hysterics and there she was laughing so hard she hit her face on the steering wheel asking, "how do you even do that?" And all the nights we spent getting ready for the night in her little apartment in St Petersburg, singing along to whatever weird song popped into my head. And we rocked those songs. Which, for some reason always included Ohh, Child. It was always in the mix. Like we were partying in the 70s instead of the 90s and 2000s.
At those times, there were no cameras, there were no crowds, there was none of that nagging self doubt that told her she was a burden on everyone else that you could see if you watched her just a moment too long. At those times, she was unguarded and happy.
I hope that whatever has met her in the next life includes a lot of unguarded and happy.
https://youtu.be/_DHRGrIqmb0
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