I just smoked my last cigarette. I apologize in advance for what I may say or do over the next few days.
I could lie and say it's because cigarettes are twice as expensive in New Jersey, but that's not the truth.
The truth is that I spend every night sleeping on Rich's chest. I can hear it in his lungs like a darkness devouring his breath.
I know I haven't written a lot about Rich. It's been so long since I was actively writing that I'm not sure I have the chops, today.
I've spent my life entertaining you with bad sex anecdotes starring dark-haired, psuedo-dominant guitar players who couldn't fill out the shadow of the one I wanted. My obsession with Rich may be the only surviving constant across all the incarnations of myself. I can't fathom carrying the weight of his death. I don't know what I'd do with the rest of my life.
I suppose I'd go into the revenge business, train for twenty years, and eventually hunt down the six-fingered man.
I thought that was poetic since, a) "I don't know what I'm going to do with the rest of my life," is the last line in the "movie", and b) Mandy Patinkin (Inigo) was visualizing that if he killed the six-fingered man, it would be killing cancer and would bring his father back from death.
I can't face Rich's death. Too much of who I am would go with him.
Every time I look down at my hand, I see the thing I hear in his chest, spreading around his heart like the cloak of the reaper.
I can't take it. I can't stand it. It's not a pleasant stress reliever; it's a reminder of the mortality of the person I love most.
I'm not going to tell him what to do.
But I'm not going to hold the smoking gun. I'm done.