He is one of two ties in this world that I can always count on. No matter what stupid bullshit transpires with life, women, work, or any chimeric combination woven by two or more of those circumstances, I always have had him and the other guy around since I was a young adult.

Do not fucking tell me it is BAD. Do not leave me pondering the worst case scenario, because I know your medical history.

I can take bad. I can take really bad. But the thought of him dead makes me so goddamned distraught I refuse to acknowledge it.

Shit has been too good. I have just screwed my head back on.

I mourned the death of the only real father figure I ever knew, but everyone else has been sad but meaningless.

Do not fucking intimate you are dying without giving me the straight shit, you asshole son of a bitch.

I have spent too little time over the years seeing you. You were my family when I first moved out here. I spent too little time in Detroit with you because of playing emasculated Sambo boyfriend for the sake a fucking dead-end relationship (given that my ex's family is also located in Detroit). I would have ended the goddamned thing three months in when it seemed iffy if I knew something like this would come. And all the precious time I could've had in Detroit was just pissed away on Andy Griffith spunk nuggets.

Who else will I spend Thanksgiving and Christmas with, listening to Belle and Sebastian while waltzing Bugwee and watching David Lynch films? Who the fuck else will go out to the worst neighborhoods just to do photography in abandoned factories and burned out houses? Who else will let me just be me and not give a shit?

Just. Fucking no.

God fucking damn it you better not die on me.

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