Yesterday a guy I knew all the way from first grade through high school died. I'm not saying we were bff, but as it always is with small towns, he was a somewhat constant presence. His mother was my 4th grade teacher. He was a really, really nice guy.
He was a year younger than me, was in fantastic shape when I saw him last June at Rivahfest, and yet dropped dead of a "massive" heart attack (isn't any heart attack "massive" if it kills you?") Meanwhile, I've lived like Caligula at a Pizza Hut buffet convention, and I'm perfectly alive. He owned a funeral home, providing comfort for the grieving, and had a wife and two children. I spend my days wondering how I can make money pairing Colt 45 and mother/daughter porn, and I'm perfectly alive. Makes no fucking sense. When I heard the news, a shot went through my brain "dude, let this be a fucking warning for you," and I've felt guilty ever since for thinking that I could possibly believe that him living and dying was solely to signal to me to get healthier; that somehow, his life was not only less important than mine, but existed to serve mine. Fucking hell.
It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive, but sometimes you can feel a bit guilty.
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