If you live to be 100, I hope I live to be 100 minus 1 day, so I never have to live without you. ~ Winnie the PoohI feel like I'm writing a eulogy right now.
As the taste of vomit escapes from the depths of my throat, I am a lost puppy searching earnestly for a way home.
I thought this day would come easy--really, I did. But, unfortunately, I can't say that anymore.
Certainly, many of you are wondering what the fuck I am talking about. And sadly, I must admit: I am a victim. My life, my identity was stolen from me.
Not just stolen, though, but snatched like it was one of the Crown Jewels. Like a fucking thief in the night, some bold motherfucker gut my bag open like a goddamn fish. And like the innards of a dead carcass, this crafty shithead sifted through to find the heart of my being -- my wallet.
Not only was it a wallet, but a way of life. Hell, it was my lifeline. I don't know how much longer I can carry on...
But honestly, I feel so violated. Let me tell you how this all went down:
I was just minding my own business (like I ALWAYS do); I may or may not have passed out after a long night of binge drinking, but that's beside the point. So there I was just resting my eyes on the train back to my place when all of sudden -- WHAM! I've become a victim, a measly statistic.
I don't really know what happened. I wish I did though. But that didn't stop me from standing nose-to-nose with the first guy I laid eyes upon. He was a shifty motherfucker sitting in front of me. What else was I to think? I mean, hell, when I finally came to and opened my eyes, all I saw was his sideways glare creeping at me with his hands moving all shady-like. I can't explain it.
So the story goes on without much resolution. I never caught the guy, obviously, or the next time you would see me I would be wearing his (or her, I guess, but that's just sounds silly) hands around my neck like a goddamn trophy. You know, like a scarecrow to ward off potential theives. I wish I find him, and I'll go Riyadh on his ass. Steal my shit, I'll cut your hands off. Look at me funny, I'll scoop your eyeball out with a spoon. I'm just saying what Jesus taught -- eye for an eye, right?
I can't believe no one stopped this guy though. I can only imagine what it looked like when he was standing over me, knife in hand, about to slice me open like Bear Grylls on a dead mule. The only thing that really chaps my ass,though, is the fact that I lost priceless valuables. I couldn't care less about the credit cards or $3 cash that I had on me. I was able to cancel the credit cards, but only after the stupid fucks bought McDonald's and a CTA pass. Seriously, that's all they bought.
But they took more than my credit cards that fateful July night...they took my friend. They stole a piece of me that can never be returned. And if it was, I couldn't bear to hold it in the same spot in my heart as it was before. Alas! Marc Dean, my alias for so many years, has finally been laid to rest. He was bore by the grace of God, and into my hands he was commended. Words will never do justice the priceless memories we had together. We laughed, cried, lived together...
I know many of you have been able to partake in the pure joy of being around him as well. If you would be so kind, I invite you to share some of your finer moments with Marc, so his memory will never be forgotten. He may be gone physically, but his spirit will live on forever.
So here's to you, Marc Dean: my friend, my confidant, my brother! Lest we forget!
(This entry is dedicated to the life and times of Marc Dean: June 16, 1984-July 31, 2008 of 8128 Groesbeck Rd, Lansing, MI 48912. You were a Gemini, and a non-organ donor. You will never be forgotten, Marc. Thank you for everything.)
Editor's Note: For those in the Metro-Detroit area, there will services held the days of August 8th through August 18th in rememberance of Marc. Please contact Joe D. for further information regarding the memorial.
Finally, below you will find a re-enactment of the crime scene. The following is a snippet of the scene I now dub The Severance in which the perpetrator slices open the bag, revealing the goods -- the wallet. Mr. Grylls is playing the role of the criminal, and the dead zebra is playing the role of myself, the innocent victim. The meat Mr. Grylls tears and steals is a metaphor for my wallet: the part of my own body unjustly stolen and, ultimately, exploited.
As the taste of vomit escapes from the depths of my throat, I am a lost puppy searching earnestly for a way home.
I thought this day would come easy--really, I did. But, unfortunately, I can't say that anymore.
Certainly, many of you are wondering what the fuck I am talking about. And sadly, I must admit: I am a victim. My life, my identity was stolen from me.
Not just stolen, though, but snatched like it was one of the Crown Jewels. Like a fucking thief in the night, some bold motherfucker gut my bag open like a goddamn fish. And like the innards of a dead carcass, this crafty shithead sifted through to find the heart of my being -- my wallet.
Not only was it a wallet, but a way of life. Hell, it was my lifeline. I don't know how much longer I can carry on...
But honestly, I feel so violated. Let me tell you how this all went down:
I was just minding my own business (like I ALWAYS do); I may or may not have passed out after a long night of binge drinking, but that's beside the point. So there I was just resting my eyes on the train back to my place when all of sudden -- WHAM! I've become a victim, a measly statistic.
I don't really know what happened. I wish I did though. But that didn't stop me from standing nose-to-nose with the first guy I laid eyes upon. He was a shifty motherfucker sitting in front of me. What else was I to think? I mean, hell, when I finally came to and opened my eyes, all I saw was his sideways glare creeping at me with his hands moving all shady-like. I can't explain it.
So the story goes on without much resolution. I never caught the guy, obviously, or the next time you would see me I would be wearing his (or her, I guess, but that's just sounds silly) hands around my neck like a goddamn trophy. You know, like a scarecrow to ward off potential theives. I wish I find him, and I'll go Riyadh on his ass. Steal my shit, I'll cut your hands off. Look at me funny, I'll scoop your eyeball out with a spoon. I'm just saying what Jesus taught -- eye for an eye, right?
I can't believe no one stopped this guy though. I can only imagine what it looked like when he was standing over me, knife in hand, about to slice me open like Bear Grylls on a dead mule. The only thing that really chaps my ass,though, is the fact that I lost priceless valuables. I couldn't care less about the credit cards or $3 cash that I had on me. I was able to cancel the credit cards, but only after the stupid fucks bought McDonald's and a CTA pass. Seriously, that's all they bought.
But they took more than my credit cards that fateful July night...they took my friend. They stole a piece of me that can never be returned. And if it was, I couldn't bear to hold it in the same spot in my heart as it was before. Alas! Marc Dean, my alias for so many years, has finally been laid to rest. He was bore by the grace of God, and into my hands he was commended. Words will never do justice the priceless memories we had together. We laughed, cried, lived together...
I know many of you have been able to partake in the pure joy of being around him as well. If you would be so kind, I invite you to share some of your finer moments with Marc, so his memory will never be forgotten. He may be gone physically, but his spirit will live on forever.
So here's to you, Marc Dean: my friend, my confidant, my brother! Lest we forget!
(This entry is dedicated to the life and times of Marc Dean: June 16, 1984-July 31, 2008 of 8128 Groesbeck Rd, Lansing, MI 48912. You were a Gemini, and a non-organ donor. You will never be forgotten, Marc. Thank you for everything.)
Editor's Note: For those in the Metro-Detroit area, there will services held the days of August 8th through August 18th in rememberance of Marc. Please contact Joe D. for further information regarding the memorial.
Finally, below you will find a re-enactment of the crime scene. The following is a snippet of the scene I now dub The Severance in which the perpetrator slices open the bag, revealing the goods -- the wallet. Mr. Grylls is playing the role of the criminal, and the dead zebra is playing the role of myself, the innocent victim. The meat Mr. Grylls tears and steals is a metaphor for my wallet: the part of my own body unjustly stolen and, ultimately, exploited.
1 comment:
Yessss another blog.
I laughed so hard I pissed myself, I pissed myself so hard I shat.
The times I spent with Marc Dean will never be forgotten.
I'm sorry D. This is a huge lose. I can't help to think of the future you two would of had together. Possibly blame a murder on him? Who knows. All I know is that tonight, I will tip my glass and look my bartender straight in the eye and say let me tell you a story one of the greatest men I ever knew. They called him Marc Dean.
I love you joe keep fighting the fight.
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