"Stupid Jon" became a regular phrase in my vocabulary. Not the most intelligent, but I believe it complimented my bitter attitude well. In the beginning I did not cry for you. You did not deserve my tears. But I could not stop time, and ultimately I could not stop the tears. Too soon I realized you would never make me laugh again and it became agonizing. I quickly learned that no matter how angry I was at you, it would never bring you back. I could never slap you, so what was the sense of being so irate. So I became sad. I wore your shirt. I thought of it like an armor of you. Protecting me. Your shirt started to smell less like you and more like me, and it became just another piece of cloth lost in my room. More days came at me, but they turned into a countdown to your funeral. I felt butterflies in my stomach, but they did not feel right. They felt dark. My body could not process, so my brain told my stomach to be sick. Your big day came and I saw you again. Not the cheesy charismatic man I once knew, but I must admit, you did look peaceful. I could never be mad at you when you were alive, when blood was pumping threw you, igniting the energy that illuminated threw you. How could I be mad you now. Resting there, without one worry in the world. You chose to be there. The ultimate act of selfishness. We might have been the ones being selfish for wanting to keep you here. It was your life to take. I did not agree, but it was yours. A simple good-bye would have been sufficed.
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