Dear Jake, 

The last time I saw you, you gave me advice on how to cook a salmon dinner for my girlfriend. I was trying to impress her by pretending I’m something I most certainly am not; a competent chef. Often, I try to compensate my complete absence of self-respect or dignity by outright lying and pretending I’m more impressive than I actually am. Lucky for me, she doesn’t read these things. You, on the other hand, are an extremely competent chef and the advice you gave was amazing. The salmon was delicious and the sex was great. So, thank you!

Now, you’re dead.

Heart attack. 

And you were young! Mid-thirties! You had just turned your life around health-wise. You had lost so much weight. I was proud of you. I was envious of your talent as a cook and inspired by your healthy weight loss journey. 

I struggle with the thought of death; I assume most people do. But there’s something in me that doesn’t get over it. My brother died when I was around 20 and it fucked me up. I had a friend who committed suicide a couple of years ago and it still gives me nightmares. My Grandmother passed away a few years back (as Grandmothers do), and I still think about the night my dad called when it happened. And now, when I think of Grandma, the memory always ends with me at the kitchen table as I helped Mom fill out the death certificate form. 

People always tell me the same thing: think of the good times; as if that’s supposed to make me happier. When I think of the good times, all it does is make the realization that those good times will never happen again. They seem almost fake. 

Jake, we went camping once with a big group, you and I. And I remember you had this shirt that said “World’s Greatest Grandma” on it. I remember thinking that was incredibly stupid, but it kept making me laugh. I asked, “Why do you have a shirt with that phrase on it?” You said, “Because it was cheap.” I guess that makes sense. 

That’s a great memory. And I’ll never enjoy it. I mean, is that what people do? They think of happy memories of their dead loved ones and smile into the abyss? That’s creeps the fuck out of me! 

And what the hell are my loved ones going to think about when I die? After the disappointment of losing money they bet on Auto-Erotic Asphyxiation (still a hot bet btw!!), I think most of my friends and family might struggle with happy memories of me. Do I write about this sad shit too much? Are they going to think “Well, what did she expect? All she did was bitch and moan about the inevitability of death.” Which is true. But fuck you, it’s my blog, I can write what I want. 

I guess I’m like Eyeore in that respect. Always bringing the conversation down. But Eyeore still had friends and family that loved him. He was still invited to hang out. And they never tried to change him; they always accepted him for who he was. 

Jake, you were smart, and fun, and hilarious, and laid back, and talented. You died too early and, once again in my life, I’m saying all the things to a dead person that they probably would have loved to hear when they were alive. Would it have mattered coming from me? I wonder.

You had an amazing and huge circle of friends and family who loved you loved being around you. 

I’m happy you took the time to teach me how to cook salmon. 

Thanks for noticing me.