Тонкое искусство пофигизма

           Peoplewouldcomebyandtrytocheermeup,andIwouldsitthereandhearthemsayalltherightthingsanddoalltherightthings;andIwouldtellthemthankyouandhowniceitwasofthemtocomeover,andIwouldfakeasmileandlieandsaythatitwasgettingbetter,butunderneathIjustfeltnothing.

           IdreamedaboutJoshforafewmonthsafterthat.DreamswhereheandIwouldhavefull-blownconversationsaboutlifeanddeath,aswellasaboutrandom,pointlessthings.Upuntilthatpointinmylife,Ihadbeenaprettytypicalmiddle-classstonerkid:lazy,irresponsible,sociallyanxious,anddeeplyinsecure.Josh,inmanyways,hadbeenapersonIlookedupto.Hewasolder,moreconfident,moreexperienced,andmoreacceptingofandopentotheworldaroundhim.InoneofmylastdreamsofJosh,IwassittinginaJacuzziwithhim(yeah,Iknow,weird),andIsaidsomethinglike,“I’mreallysorryyoudied.”Helaughed.Idon’trememberexactlywhathiswordswere,buthesaidsomethinglike,“WhydoyoucarethatI’mdeadwhenyou’restillsoafraidtolive?”Iwokeupcrying.