You get a strange feeling when you’re about to leave a place. Like you’ll not only miss the people you love but you’ll miss the person you are now at this time and this place, because you’ll never be this way ever again.
"We just sit here and watch everything."
"What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever seen?"
"Nothing too weird. We go inside before the sun goes down."
Some of my personal struggles with both loving and hating makeup at the same time.
"My happiest moments were when my mom was still alive."
"What’s your fondest memory of your mother?"
"One time when I was six years old, we went to pick up my father at the airport. On the way, my mother explained to me the concept of boarding a plane and taking a trip. And then while we waited for my father, we sat in a nearby restaurant, and we planned out all the imaginary trips that I wanted to go on."
If someone were to die at the age of 63 after a lifelong battle with MS or Sickle Cell, we’d all say they were a “fighter” or an “inspiration.” But when someone dies after a lifelong battle with severe mental illness and drug addiction, we say it was a tragedy and tell everyone “don’t be like him, please seek help.” That’s bullshit. Robin Williams sought help his entire life. He saw a psychiatrist. He quit drinking. He went to rehab. He did this for decades. That’s HOW he made it to 63. For some people, 63 is a fucking miracle. I know several people who didn’t make it past 23 and I’d do anything to have 40 more years with them.
Do you still perform autopsies on conversations you had lives ago?