Dear DJ,

I'd forgotten the photo existed until that one girl—some chick from the Northern dorms that you made out with—liked it on Facebook. It was of me and you and Greg from high school. You were on the far left, punk-as-fuck, your hair in a double mowhawk; Greg was in the middle, also punk-as-fuck, his bleached mowhawk falling lazily against the side of his head; I was on the right, not punk-as-fuck, my hair short for me, making my neck look longer than usual, prompting the nickname "Giraffe" that summer. I was eating ice cream stolen from Greg's freezer. I'd stolen a spoon from his kitchen too, causing Greg to make the first comment: "You stole my spoon fucker!"

A few years after leaving that comment, Greg was dead from a heroin overdose.

And the girl didn't know this. She didn't know he was dead, or that this was a photo I forgot existed, or that her liking it would notify me, would cause me to stare at my monitor for twenty minutes, no idea what to do, because his comment was always going to be there, DJ, and that made me feel shitty. Having to see it made me feel really shitty.

It was my picture though—I could delete any goddamn comment I wanted. I could delete that picture if I wanted. I couldn't delete Greg's Facebook, the dead stick around, but I could delete any evidence of his existence on my Facebook. I could even unfriend him.

And the thought of doin' that made me feel even shittier.

- MJ


Fwd: >