I’m too tired to write a post tonight (though I have so many ideas!). A friend of mine reminded me today is the anniversary of the events described here, so I thought I’d repost it. Don’t fret. In less than a week, my birthday will have come and gone, and it will be all unicorns and rainbows around here again.
I spent my 18th birthday surrounded by friends.
One of them was dead.
It was his funeral.
I made my first “guy friends” Sophomore year of high school. We ate lunch together most days. They were friendly and snarky, and our friendship was different from every other experience I’d had with guys, which generally consisted of:
A) unrequited, unilateral crushes (by me on them),
B) merciless teasing (by them on me), or
C) a combination of A and B.
Now, four days before my 18th birthday, one of these boys–the one who always told me to “smile” when he passed me in the hall, sometimes passed me notes, and usually tried to tickle me–was dead. He had shot himself in the head.
View original post 323 more words