Wednesday, April 19, 2006

R.I.P. Mike Roberto.

So, I found out Sunday that Mike shot himself.

I guess it's obvious that there is nothing about this that doesn't suck. The Memorial is tomorrow. Mike was my Bro, and I miss him.

Of the myriad things I hate about this kind of shit is just the inherent drama about the whole thing. Either one keeps completely tight lipped about it, or you end up dropping unsuspecting bombshells on innocent people asking shit like, "What are you doing Thursday?"

And, of course, throwing dirt on someone you used to hang out with sucks balls, as well.

Sunday after I found out I ended up kind of volatile. I walked down to the mall to get something to eat, and just...I almost started a fight. Hell, I almost started a fight with someone who was carrying their daughter around. He was, in fact, being a dick, but my reaction was a bit lopsided, even after I walked away. I kept having to resist the urge to double back and tell him to put his fucking daughter down and blast him in his fucking face in front of his family. Though this may have prompted him to reconsider his unjust sense of entitlement in future, it would have been a big clusterfuck of wreckage otherwise.

Shortly there-after I wandered into Hot Topic, where the sales girls were jumping around to whatever corporate sanctioned alterna-crap they had playing, and I just wanted to grab them, shake them hard and yell, "My friend just shot himself, how the fuck is your Easter??!!??" I could have Out Gloomed the Gothiest Goth anywhere at that moment.

So, of course, now just mentioning it as a filled slot on my clalendar seems unnecessary drama. And hey, there's this whole fucking Blog entry on it.

Whatever. Obviously, I didn't blast that guy in the face, and I didn't slap the happy out of the sales girls. I'm not trying to over drama it, but I'm trying to cop to my feelings about it none the less, and well, whatever.

Mike Roberto was a good dude. He was my friend, and I miss him, and I'm gonna miss him. I wish there was someway I could have gone back and told him so, or demonstrated such sufficiently to keep him from taking his own life, but I couldn't and didn't and who or what I say to whom and when is largely beyond my ken.

I hope the Pain's gone, Mike, I really hope it is. Whatever it was that drove you to it, I hope it's fucking gone. And where ever you are, I hope you can look down and smile sardonically and laugh at the idiocy of the rest of us doing our thing as best we can, with an Atomic-strength cup of coffee in your hand.

Fucking Knucklehead.

Rest in Fucking Peace, Mike Roberto. You're fucking missed.