If You Believed They Put a Man on the Moon

I rarely find myself without words, but here I am… I stopped writing and started heavily editing/deleting the day I knew who was reading my blog. This post has taken me well over 2 years to post and I’m still struggling with finding the right words to say…

When I told Wally that I had a blog and wanted to include one of the drawings that he did of me (see below, below) he was quick to give me the go ahead. However, as soon as he gave me permission, he asked for the blog link, more specifically he said “hi fucker whats your blog?” I panicked at the thought of him reading it and told him it was lame, about feelings and sucked. With his reassurance that it didn’t matter and that his blog was also lame, I sent him the link. He then responded “actually I take it back, my blog is pretty fucking good.” 🙂 It is.

With that one view I found myself rethinking every little thing I had posted. Why am I telling the internet this shit? Who cares?… Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think anything I say on here is groundbreaking or worthy of attention (Or this effort now). I’m just trying to explain my absence so perhaps I can move forward. I’d like to think that I’m only writing for myself, a form of self-absorbed therapy in which I give zero fucks about anyone’s opinion. Unfortunately that bubble burst when I realized with Wally, I cared. He was pretty hilarious… If he laughed or smiled as a result of anything I did it felt awesome. I had just met him a couple years earlier, but I related to him more than most. He seemed to understand my sensitivity and anxiousness with people and that sometimes life felt like a never-ending struggle. Without getting too far into it, his daily GIFs and photos of a half-naked Burt Reynolds (long story) was something I enjoyed and looked forward to. As far as the blog went his advice was simple “Avoid using Nietzsche quotes and you should be fine”…

I did post exactly that a couple of days after I found out that he had killed himself, because fuck it.

He’d probably hate that I’m writing about him like this… Talk about lame, and feelings. Our self-deprecating humour didn’t allow much room for emotions or many heartfelt conversations. He definitely had people who were far closer to him, better friends. I’m not sure that I did though. I know that he didn’t want to be here, that part I get. I know he won’t ever read this, yuuup, understood. So what’s the problem? Why do I still care? I don’t know what I think happens after someone dies, but ignoring it seems to have silenced me. I thought by writing some of this down I would have worked through some of my feelings, but as I’m nearing the end (you’re welcome), I haven’t… I’m hoping I can start to write about other things and make better jokes without my guilty conscience screaming “BUT THIS THING HAPPENED!” Acknowledging that I cared about his opinion feels like a cop-out. I have glossed over painful emotions and minimized the effect his death has had on me, which I think he would appreciate.

By Walter

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