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This is the first time I remember crying: It's, I don't know, 1991? I'm four or five or something. Like so much of my childhood, my memory of it is elusive. A hazy cloud of disparate details swirling about, occasionally condensing into a revelatory burst of clarity. What has coalesced about this particular moment is that we live in our house in Elburn. I see my dad sitting on the couch in the living room. I feel sad—so sad, in fact, that I decide to seek solace from him rather than track down my mother. I crawl up onto the couch and sit next to him before being so overwhelmed by that sadness that I start sobbing. He holds me and asks what's wrong.
I manage, eventually, to say through the tears, "I miss Sam."
Sam’s family moved away.
As a small child, I didn't know how to conceptualize the distance between Elburn, Illinois and Tempe, Arizona. I knew that it was far enough that they may as well have moved to a completely different planet. I knew that my cousin—my favorite cousin—would no longer be a part of my life in the same way he had until then. It was my first experience with loss, and it was devastating.
Saying that Sam was one of my best friends as a child woefully undersells the significance his presence brought to my life. Our relationship was much more akin to that of siblings. You know, siblings who liked each other. Siblings who didn't share the fraught, antagonistic existence that defined growing up with my younger sister.[1] Sam and I just clicked. We shared similar interests. Similar senses of humor. We got each other. He was someone I was always excited to hang out with. At my house. At his. At our grandparent's. It didn't matter. If Sam was there, I knew we were going to have a good time.
He was also older than me by about three years, so there's a chance that a lot of my perception of our relationship, even decades later, is colored by the fact that I was, in reality, the annoying younger "sibling" who idolized the older one. But if Sam's disposition toward me was that of mere tolerance, I have to say he hid it quite well. We played video games. We watched movies. We made each other laugh so, so much. My childhood memories of hanging out with Sam are wrought of that joy and laughter.[2] He was a dorky, kind, affable kid blessed with the quick wit of the adults in our family—a trait I was desperate to emulate.
The short amount of time we lived near one another was enough to solidify in my mind a deep love and admiration for him. I couldn't have known as I sobbed into my dad's chest that Sam's absence would make the reunions that much more fulfilling. I had to learn that over the course of years, witnessing through photos as he slowly grew into his big buck teeth, hearing how his voice changed when we'd get a chance to talk on the phone, and barely containing my excitement for the holidays or gatherings when he and his family would fly back up and I'd get a chance to hang out with him for a couple days. Even though years would often pass before we got to see each other, when we did, it was like we had just hung out the day before. And I found myself falling back in line, a little puppy following him around anxiously seeking his approval.
It's 1993. Maybe. I'm, like, seven or whatever. We're on a family camping trip somewhere in Wisconsin. My mom, me and my sister, my grandparents, my mom's youngest sister, and, to my excitement, Sam! Plus, his sister, Kim, and their parents. He and his family are having trouble adjusting to the cooler weather since they arrived back north for this trip.
But I’m a Midwestern kid through and through, so I’m wandering around the campsite in a t-shirt, feelin’ great. I'm picking up sticks. I'm hopping off of tree stumps. I'm snacking on those orange crackers that ostensibly taste of cheese with that circular pad of peanut butter sandwiched between them. And by snacking on them I mean I'm carefully separating the crackers, scraping the peanut butter off with my teeth, and casting the crackers off into nature. You know, really livin' it up.
Until.
"Keenan, put on a sweatshirt," Sam's mom says. "It's too cold out here."
I tell her I'm not cold.
"Put one on anyway."
I turn to my mom, who doesn't say anything, though she gives me a look that I would recognize years later as the one that means that sometimes you need to pick your battles. I stomp off and put on a sweatshirt, even though I'm not cold, and I wear it, even though it makes me too warm.
At one point, the adults gather around a table and start playing Hearts. I tell them I want to learn how to play, but Sam's mom quickly brushes me off.
"Not right now. The adults are playing."
Disappointed, I slink off to go sulk in my grandparents' trailer, the one they tow up on every camping trip, where I can at least watch a movie on the little TV.
Later, I emerge to see everyone still playing cards—including Sam and Kim. I find my mom in the trailer and break down crying. She asks me what's wrong.
I tell her that I feel left out. I don't understand why my cousins were invited, but I wasn’t.
That evening, Sam and I are in the bed of my grandparents' truck. We called dibs on it as a sleeping spot. I can't explain why it feels so cool to sleep on a pile of blankets and pillows back there—actually, maybe it's because it reminds me of the scene in The Rescuers Down Under where they introduce the main protagonist, a kid who we first see sleeping in a hammock under a pile of clothes somewhere in the Australian Outback. This is an image that sticks with me well into adulthood because I guess I always romanticize the idea of some sort of rugged, scrappy life where I'm just barely getting by?[3]
Anyway, we stay up late talking and laughing. We bounce around story ideas—we're both aspiring authors. I tell him about a book I want to write—a story about a kid who becomes a famous movie star and eventually can't cope with the stress and kills himself.[4] Sam says he doesn't think the kid needs to die at the end. Sage advice, probably, but I'm disappointed he criticized my idea.
The conversation inexplicably turns to religion. Sam is big time into God and stuff, and he's telling me about how getting "saved" is the most important thing someone can do in their life. If they accept Jesus as their lord and savior, they'll get into Heaven when they die. I think this sounds pretty rad and I want to be like Sam, so I ask him to save me.
It's the middle of the night in the back of a pickup truck in a forest somewhere in Wisconsin when I give myself to Jesus to impress my cousin.
When the adults rouse us from slumber the next morning, I whisper to Sam and ask him to tell his mom that I've been saved.
I think that maybe she'll finally accept me. Maybe it'll help me feel less like an outcast with my family, something that even now my little seven year-old brain can perceive. If I had already been saved, would they have invited me to play cards with them?
Sam tells his mom. And when we all eventually gather around the campfire for breakfast, my grandma cries tears of joy for my soul.
When I go back to school that week, I boast to my friends during recess about how I got saved, so that means I can do anything and still go to Heaven.
"Even murder!" I exclaim to my captive audience.
Before recess concludes, I’ve saved all of them, just like Sam would’ve.
Here are some of my favorite Sam memories:
As a child, riding with him in the back of his parents' station wagon—it was one of those boxy monstrosities that featured a backseat that faced the rear window. I thought that was so cool. One time, Sam's dad got pulled over for speeding and Sam and I excitedly asked the cop to see his gun.
The first time my sister and I ever flew on a plane by ourselves was to go visit Sam and Kim and their parents at their home in Tempe. Sam had started using deodorant at that point, which I thought was very mature.[5] Sam would also introduce me to Star Trek on that trip. We watched a bunch of episodes of The Next Generation and Deep Space Nine and Voyager his family had recorded onto VHS tapes. And I was hooked. I liked Deep Space Nine the best. I don't know why. Don't ask.
Years later, riding in his parents' car, Sam would excitedly tell me about all of his amazing adventures playing Ultima Online. I wanted to play it so badly, but I could never convince my parents to sign me up for the subscription, so I just lived vicariously through Sam, hanging on every word of the elaborate stories he weaved about evading guards and dungeon crawling and trying to trick people into following him so he could "PK" them.
Years later, when we’re both teenagers, riding in the back seat of his parents' car on a drive back from the Grand Canyon. Sam and I end up talking about the philosophy of The Matrix, for, like, an hour, and how, like, The Matrix Reloaded really expanded on the lore of the world, and actually, those films were super deep and it's kind of amazing how deep they were even though they were sci-fi action movies, and whoa, art is extremely cool and metaphors are good. His mom mocked us from the front seat. "I think what I'm getting from this conversation is that the Matrix is so deep," she said. But we were in the zone and our excitement wouldn't be contained by the disapproval of authority, man.
Years later, another car conversation. Sam telling me about how cool World of Warcraft is, how he and his mom were in a guild together and how they'd go PvPing and raid and get all the best loot. I told them about how I'd been playing a different MMO called City of Heroes, and how I was proud because my character had recently won a costume contest. Sam's mom laughed and said that sounded very "care bear"—a new term I was unfamiliar with at the time, but dripping with her unique brand of derision. Sam rebuked her: "That's not care bear, Mom. That's awesome!"
It hadn't totally dawned on me until I started writing this just how often Sam stepped in to defend me against his mom.
Both of his parents were, honestly, deeply unpleasant people to be around. They specialized in mean-spirited ribbing, going out of their way to question, criticize, and mock people. For their opinions, their looks, or their beliefs, it didn't matter. If it could be picked apart, it was fair game. And they were, of course, quick to take offense if anyone pushed back against their mockery in any way, lamenting the fragility of those they picked on. Even if the people they bullied were literal children, like I was in the vast majority of my interactions with them. "You're so sensitive, learn to take a joke" distilled into human form. You know the type—the people who compensate for their overwhelming mediocrity by doubling-down on condescension. Who dig their heels so deeply into the ground at even the slightest whiff of dissent. People so thoroughly convinced of their own infallibility, that anyone poking holes into the veil should be met with vicious contempt. If it was possible to chisel and polish arrogance, my aunt and uncle could produce the statue of David out of it.
If there was one difference between the two of them, though, it was that my aunt, at least, had enough self-awareness to feel shame, though it typically took some cajoling for her to reconcile with her shittiness. It was usually Sam who stepped in in these moments to call his mom out and tell her she was being unnecessarily[6] mean to me. His willingness to stand up for me was one of the qualities I appreciated about him the most, since I often felt outnumbered and targeted by our family's "jokes." The times she actually apologized[7] to me were a direct result of him intervening.
I do wonder what it was like growing up in a house with parents who were so relentlessly petty and vindictive. As I got older, I was amazed that Sam and Kim emerged from that household seemingly so normal. Perhaps my experience with my aunt and uncle wasn't the norm—though I suppose I would have to actively disregard the myriad stories I've heard over the years from other family members who became the targets of their ire.
In the summer of 2005, my mom and I took a road trip down to Texas, where Sam lived with his parents while he finished up undergrad. Luckily, his dad was away on a work trip somewhere, so it was Sam and his mom who toured us around the area. We visited Dallas, where the highlight of the day was wandering in and around The Book Depository. I distinctly recall needing to pass through a metal detector to enter the museum proper, and the guys in front of us in line had to stop to disarm, placing their guns in a little plastic box so the security agent could reacquaint them after the big metal gate gave them the all-clear. I thought it was 1) weird to be carrying around a firearm and 2) in that place of all places, like, read the room, my dudes.
I also distinctly recall how enraptured Sam was with the museum. The events surrounding President Kennedy's assassination. The infographics laid out around the room. The little miniature recreation of that block of Dallas housed within panes of glass so you could get a bird's eye view of the area and the path of the motorcade. We saw the window from where Lee Harvey Oswald fired his rifle. We walked outside and saw three Xs painted on the street, indicating where the bullets hit their mark. From the sidewalk, Sam looked at the Xs, then back up to the sixth floor window. The Xs. The sixth floor window. The Xs. The sixth floor window.
"No way," he said. "There's no way. That guy didn't make those shots. It doesn't make sense. No way."
I was still coming down from the high of watching Loose Change a year prior, so I nodded my head along in agreement.
A notable Sam memory: on that same trip, my mom and I sitting opposite from Sam and his mom at a steakhouse. I can't recall exactly how the conversation veered in this direction—though if I had to guess, it would be because Sam's mom brought it up, seeing as she often operated as though compelled by some dark contractual obligation to be as antagonistic as possible—but the two of them joyfully ventured into discussing, at length, the moral failing of the United States, and how our society was being dragged down by the sin of homosexuality. Sam claimed, with an air of authority outmatched only by his defiant unwillingness to provide any evidence, that every country which legalized gay marriage saw a distinct, measurable cultural decline in the years following.[8] Sam's mom said that if we legalized gay marriage, then it wouldn't be long before people would advocate for marrying animals.
I sat and listened and watched as the Santorum frothed at the corners of their mouths. One thing I've never been particularly good at is trying to debate people who are only interested in hearing themselves talk. I hold my own much better in text, when I can take the time to carefully consider my perspective and, subsequently, the words with which to support it. A tête-à-tête has never suited me, let alone a tête-à-tête-à-tête-à-tête. I found myself disheartened as I tried to offer differing perspectives—controversial statements such as, "Gay people aren't bad, actually" or "Dehumanizing people for who they love is wrong"—only to have them dismissed outright in a battering of bigoted statements masquerading as protestations of love.
This conversation exposed me to the reality that Sam had, indeed, adopted many of his parents' combative mannerisms. Conversations with them weren't about understanding. They weren't about learning. They weren't about connecting with other people and expanding your worldview. They were about victory, about dominance. If you wanted to win, you’d better be ready to yell. The loudest person at the table was the most right. And you need to talk and talk and talk over your opponent so that they eventually relent in the battle of verbal attrition.
Later, as things pivoted to more savory topics, Sam claimed that the (just a theory) of Evolution was nonsense, and that Charles Darwin, in the throes of the illness that would finally claim his life, renounced it. Flat out rejected his life's work in secret to a nurse. A peculiar and startling notion I had never once heard before. He said it with such confidence that it was hard to refute in the moment, but the absurdity of the assertion rattled around in my brain long after dinner was over.
When my mom and I finally hit the road a couple days later, we confided in one another our mutual dismay regarding Sam's descent into Conservative fervor. How unpleasant it was to be talked down to like that, and what a shame that Sam was so quick to parrot right wing bullshit just like his parents. It was illuminating for me, one of the first moments I can recall where I realized that perhaps Sam wasn't a person I wanted to revere. A new kind of loss, the moment where you begin to recognize the people you love aren't who you thought they were. It’s a unique betrayal.
I asked her why she hadn't pushed back harder in that conversation. After all, she brought me up to be kind and accepting. She had gay friends and gay family members. She had supported me when I confessed to her in high school that I thought I was bisexual. So I wasn't sure why I felt so isolated in that discussion. She said that she had spent plenty of time arguing with Sam's parents over the years. That at a certain point you need to learn when to pick your battles. You could lose your mind trying to change others'.
Weeks later, that dinner still gnawed at me, the conversation replaying itself over and over and over. I didn't think I could ever sway Sam from his Christian Love of queer people, but I knew, at the very least, I could determine whether or not some of his "facts" held up under scrutiny. I wrote him an email telling him that I was having a difficult time shaking what he said, and that after some research, I had determined that his anecdote about Darwin was unequivocally false. A lie propagated by critics of Darwin's work.
To this day, his response still surprises me, for many reasons. He wrote:
The thing with Darwin. I'm really happy you looked into that. It's actually something I recently discovered was yet another lie that was told to me as fact. I did not even remember that I had said it to you or I would have contacted you and let you know. There are many things that the "Christian" church taught me that have been lies. Pardon my French but,[sic] bullshit like this is the reason I don't go to church anymore. I can't speak for all churches or Christian denominations, because I'm sure there are still some good ones out there, but I've found most of them are built on groupthink. Self-deception is the name of the game. The problem is it's been going on so damn long most of them don't even know their [sic] continuing the tradition. I'll spare you the full on rant here, because I could go on for pages. As I said, I'm happy you looked that up and did not allow the bullshit to spread to yet another person. I'm sorry that I said that to you. Over the past two years or so I've had to sift through everything I was taught at church for the first eighteen years of my life. Separating the truth from the lies is not an easy task.
It's 2007. I'm 21. Sam's mom just made a joke at my expense in a public forum with our World of Warcraft guildmates. I respond and defend myself.
"Learn to take a joke," she writes back, completely divorced from any semblance of irony.
That's it. This is the moment I hit my limit. I decide to write her an email. To let her know that I've spent years taking her "jokes." Years of pent up frustration at how she's treated me. The mockery. The criticisms. Laughing at me to my face. Behind my back. Mocking my girlfriend's heritage. Accusing me of being a liar. The ostracizing and othering. All of it pours out into a lengthy message because if there's one thing that I am fucking good at, it's writing for a really, really, really, really, really long time.
I am sick and tired of how you treat me, I write. You've made it abundantly clear for as far back as I can remember that you do not like or respect me, and I've had enough. If you don't want me to be a part of this family. Fine. I'm done.
But, like, I'm sure a lot longer and with a bit more vitriol. You know, scorched fucking Earth, long overdue. This is the first and only time I’d stand up to her.
I click SEND. And then I leave the guild.
I spend the rest of the afternoon seething. I play video games on the Xbox until I can't stand being in the apartment any longer. I walk around the city while listening to angry music on my iPod, so I don't have to listen to the splintering multiverse of arguments I have with her in my head.
When I return to my apartment, I see the new voicemail icon on the screen of my Motorola Q, and a missed call from Sam.
I’m trying to recall the message as best as I can, decades later.
“Hey, Keenan,” he said. “My mom called me to talk about what happened. She feels really bad about it. I’m sorry she treated you that way. I hope you know that everyone in my family cares about you a lot. I understand if you don’t wanna talk to me about it. I definitely understand if you don’t want to talk to her. But I wanted to call you and tell you how much you mean to me.”
And then he finished his voicemail with a simple: “I just want to make sure you know that I love you, man.”
I love you, man. Those words echo in my skull, relentless reverberations of a disembodied voice whose exact frequency I can conjure up at a moment's notice.
No matter how much time has passed, I can hear him say it. It means so much because I know he meant it.
The seething ceases. I'm back in my body. I call my aunt on the phone. She apologizes. I apologize for losing my cool. We make amends.
I rejoin the guild.
For as much as our ideological paths diverged over the years, Sam and I shared immutable characteristics that at once bonded and repelled us. We were forever intertwined in some divine contradictory battle. We had both developed a love for literature and honed our writing. Between talking about our latest video game obsessions, we fawned over one another's talents via emails and IMs.
"You know Keenan I think you and I are both very talented people. I know that may sound a little arrogant, but I call 'em like I see 'em," he wrote to me. "We have got to get together and work on something. A movie, video game, book, whatever. We should start talking about a project of some kind."
Despite the moral turmoil I felt regarding our conflicting worldviews—the deep apprehension that clawed within as a result of the injustices I experienced when talking with him—the mere thought that he liked me and respected my intellect was, in a sense, intoxicating. There's no better word. It dulled my deepest insecurities. Quieted the screaming of my moral compass, because mine is apparently a special model of compass that screams, a lot. I couldn't help but be enraptured by the notion that this person whose approval I chased for so long, now showered me with praise. He saw in me what it felt like so many others overlooked.
But we both possessed fatal flaws that would ultimately keep us at arm's length. We were both passionate about our beliefs. We were both predisposed to combative written exchanges, disregarding the humanity on the other side of the monitor in the process. And we both found ourselves so overwhelmed by the demands of the present that we'd go weeks or months or years without connecting with people we loved.
He summarized it best in one exchange:
I'm really bad at keeping in touch. I easily get lost in the daily routine and totally forget about friends and family. I haven't talked to any of my friends from Arizona in over a year or something like that. In any case, it's nothing personal, I just suck at life.
The two of us, longing for connection, destined for loneliness because we couldn't look beyond what was right in front of our faces.
It's 2011 when I find out Sam has cancer. Details from my family are sparse. Updates relayed through a series of text messages—from Sam's parents to my mom to me.
In his colon, they know.
Stage 3A, they think.
Treatment, imminent.
Prognosis, cautiously optimistic.
I'm 25. My 28 year-old cousin could die to the same disease that took our grandparents.[9]
When was the last time I talked to him? Our last DM was years ago. Long after countless arguments in Facebook threads. Long after I got tired of the constant bickering. Witnessing his reunification with God. Reading all of the ways that Liberals were poisoning America. The condescending, downright mean way he approached seemingly every conversation that wasn't about movies or video games, and those had become fewer and further between.
I know I slammed a door on our relationship. I put distance between us to save myself the anguish, the anxiety, the frustration. I'm still angry at him. Still angry at his dad, with whom I had had a falling out two years prior. Still angry that Sam never reached out to me afterward. That the person who used to stand up for me no longer gives a fuck.
But now that anger is supplanted by new emotions. Fear. Sadness. I'm afraid and sad that my cousin could die and the last interaction we had was saturated by the stench of conflict. I can't bear the thought of living with that.
I write to him and tell him that I don't know what to say. I know we haven't talked in awhile. I know I'm partially responsible. I know he's probably mad at me for what I said to his dad. For the fights we've had. I apologize for the part I played in our division. I tell him the news made me realize I couldn't say nothing. That I do miss and love him and I'm hoping for a speedy recovery.
He responds days later and confirms a lot of what I thought. Yes, mad about dad, but also recognizes his responsibility in reaching out and trying to move on. He apologizes for letting it fester for so long, but he hopes we can rekindle our relationship.
In the years following his diagnosis, Sam and I would talk occasionally. Every once in awhile we'd catch each other playing Diablo III, though he didn't ask me to play nearly as much as I would've liked. Most of our communication continued to happen in the trenches of Facebook combat.
He would post something. I would refute it in his comments. An argument would ensue.
I would post something. He'd call me a brainwashed Liberal. An argument would ensue.
After cops murdered Michael Brown in 2014, we argued about police brutality. Sam said these situations escalate because black people don't have better role models. That one of the reasons black people and police clash so much is because of the all the gangsta rap they listen to. I said that sounded pretty fuckin' racist. And he did not like that. Apparently, in his mind, being called racist was worse than being racist.
Regardless, our correspondences were largely devoid of tact, and every time I saw him post, I felt the uniquely shitty simmering feeling of anxiety deep within my chest. The kind of anxiety where it was hard to breathe. The kind where you want to lock yourself away in a tiny little box and wait out the apocalypse that was surely imminent. At a certain point, when I could accurately name this feeling for what it was, I knew I couldn't continue to let it dominate my perception of him.
I sent him a DM to say that I had realized that any time he posted anything, I felt this anxiety, and that I hated that it had overtaken so much of my perception of him that it made it hard to even think about having a normal conversation. I missed how things used to be, the conversations we used to have. I told him I didn't think text-based communication was the best way forward for us.
He agreed, and he told me that he was glad I said something, because he experienced similar anxiety, making it difficult to engage with me. He suggested we try something different. Maybe make some time to chat over Skype.
So we did.
It was nice hearing his voice. Talking to him like a person and not merely a wall of text whose tone, intonation, and intention was largely on me to interpret. It felt effortless, like no time had passed at all. The same two kids laughing into the night in the back of a pickup, now grown up. We talked for—fuck, I dunno, three hours? Covered a lot of ground. Abortion. Science fiction. Religion. Video games. We argued, but in a way that felt mostly respectful. Devoid of the viciousness that punctuated our online discourse. Though I distinctly recall the familiar feeling of him disregarding most of my points as "illogical."
As we wrapped up, he said something to me that still baffles me to this day. "I disagree with your worldview, but you articulate yourself so much more clearly and consistently than someone like Richard Dawkins."
Like, okay?
Sam—like—what? It still cracks me up.
I left that conversation admiring his conviction, as well as feeling overwhelming self-consciousness that I was—I dunno, too acquiescent? Hearing him speak so confidently—his assuredness ignited envy within me. Embers that smolder to this day. The older I get, the less confident I feel about anything. The less I want to fight. The less I want to debate. I used to burn so hot. I could argue online for hours. Now, the thought of it makes my skin crawl. It's not that I don't feel strongly, but I don't feel so strongly that I want to spend my days mired in anxiety and rage trying to make people see reason.
But Sam, the older he got, the more he seemed to dig in. Why was he so willing to fight? Why wasn't I?
That was the last time I heard his voice.
For the next couple years I watched Sam mostly from afar as he continued to fill timelines and comment sections with right wing rhetoric. Every once in awhile I'd dip my toes into the waters to question his political allegiances.
Ben Carson? Really? That guy?
But at least we could agree on one thing: Donald Trump was despicable. Electing him would be one of the worst decisions in American history. I took solace knowing that Sam was firmly in the Never Trump camp.
Until he wasn't. It didn’t take long.
Shortly after Trump was elected, I realized that one of the biggest factors feeding my anxiety was Facebook itself. So one day early in 2017, I deleted my account and never looked back. It was the first step in decoupling my brain from the pervasive dread that social media propagates.
It also meant that my last real connection to Sam was severed. We had long moved on from playing the same video games. No one used email anymore. He never texted me. I never called him. I couldn't. I didn't want to risk a fight. I had to pick my battles.
It's December 2021 and Sam has been on a ventilator for three weeks. Details from my family are sparse. Mostly sussed out from Facebook posts from Sam's wife, with Sam's own activity in the months leading up to his hospitalization providing some additional context as to how this all happened.
Anti-vax, maybe.
COVID, definitely.
Prognosis, cautiously optimistic.
Thoughts and prayers, requested.
Unexpected turn. Still hope. Keeping a close eye. Hard decision.
My mom texts me: Sam died today.
Not even 40.
I don't cry. I want to. I want to mourn, but I feel so disconnected. What happened to us? How did we become strangers? How did I go from the kid who missed their big brother so much that I sobbed until it hurt, to barely recognizing this person?
I want to feel sad. But I'm so angry. For the first time, I hate Sam's conviction. How confident he was. I hate the lies that filled his head. Hate whoever was responsible for feeding them to him. I hate that I don't even know who to be fucking furious with. The rage makes me numb. And the numbness. The fear. The anger. It all envelops me.
Where did he go?
Where did I go?
It's 2024 now. It's been nearly three years since Sam died. I think about him often. About the relationship we had. About the person I looked up to for so much of my life. The person I didn't even know at the end.
The anger is still there. But so is the sadness. Finally. I feel it as I write this. It’s so prevalent that it drowns out almost every other emotion. There are still so many memories. So many questions. So much to try and understand. I could write until the end of time trying to make sense of it all, but the reality now is simply that I miss him. I miss my cousin. I miss who he was to me. I miss laughing with him. I miss playing games. I miss our long conversations, even the ones that frustrated me because of how diametrically opposed we were on so many things.
I feel guilty. I feel guilty being here. Stuck here, knowing that I have to accept that there will forever be a hole to fill with stories I tell myself, a collection of what-ifs, maybes, and if-onlys. I'm left reminiscing about all of the ways this ghost helped shape me into who I am today, and how much I wish I could tell him, one last time, how much he meant to me.
I miss Sam.
Obviously, no offense to my sister. I think if you asked her, her assessment of growing up with me would be described as contentious and shitty. I am quite glad that we've both turned out to be relatively normal adults who don't seem to hate each other. ↩︎
One of my favorites, as an amuse bouche: going over to his family's house and playing World Class Track Meet on the NES. They had the Power Pad and everything, and I'd move my tiny little legs as quickly as I could trying to beat him. I remember us falling over laughing, and then we'd laugh and cheer as our family members took turns. Honestly, it was like something out of a commercial. So much so that as I'm writing it down, I'm beginning to feel self-conscious about whether or not this actually happened as described. You know what? It doesn't fucking matter. I'll cherish it anyway. ↩︎
To this day, I dream of living in rural Montana, growing my own food and living off the grid. ↩︎
I was a very serious child, apparently. ↩︎
I would get back home in a week and convince my mother that I, too, needed to start using deodorant. ↩︎
Implying that there exists a necessity threshold when it comes to adults bullying children—look I was trying to be generous to this person who sucks, but I think we can all agree that bullying is abusive behavior and if you are one, you suck shit, and also get fucked. ↩︎
Though I suppose this begs the question: if you hurt someone with your actions, apologize, and then keep engaging in said actions to the point where you end up apologizing for them repeatedly over the course of decades, do your apologies even mean anything, or are you just an asshole? Who's to say! ↩︎
What does that even mean? How was this measured? Who was doing the measuring?? Doesn't matter! Facts don't care about feelings, and all that. Quit asking questions! ↩︎
I don't have to search very far to find the root cause of my health anxiety and why cancer is invariably the culprit of every single ache, pain, and pang I experience. ↩︎
I know it just came out today, but I am already ready to declare that there is no greater device than iPhone 16 Pro. I am flummoxed. Bewildered. DISCOMBOBULATED, even. It is the pinnacle of design. Of engineering. And of humanity. Once again, Apple has blessed us with a little pocket computer that instantly renders their previous efforts to the waste bin that is recorded history. iPhone 15 Pro? More like iPhone 15 No! THROW IT IN A BLENDER. Pulse pulse. Drink it up. The nourishing blend of battery acid and precious metals will satiate you as you conjure the wonders of your iCloud backup down into your brand new gleaming monolith.
My god, is there anything this phone can't do?[1] Email! Messages! Photos! Holy shit, three cameras! You can take every picture, and you will love it. I love it. It's my favorite camera ever. Nay, it is my favorite thing. Move over, my wife. Get lost, my dog, Olive, who is adorable. I am now beholden to the slab of glass in my pocket. The great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandchild of Steve Jobs.
Nothing can prepare you for how amazing this phone is. You've never seen anything like it. I certainly haven't. But I know it's great, because it is from Apple, and Apple is great, and I've never been disappointed by them ever. They are the only company who can do this. Hell, they're the only company I want to do this. Can we please just cede Capitalism to Tim Cook already?
I understand if this all comes off as hyperbolic, but it's impossible to contain my excitement for something that has already changed my life in literally immeasurable ways. It feels like I've been waiting all of my 38 years just to hold in my hand this perfect golden idol—this Desert Titanium idol. Remarkable! I wasn't expecting to love it so much. (Okay, that's a lie. I did expect it. Oops!)
As a professional photographer, I am absolutely blown away by what I'll be able to do with the 48 megapixel ultra-wide lens, as well as the 48 megapixel Fusion lens, as well as the 12 megapixel telephoto lens. We're talking 108 combined megapixels! But let's break down the technical jargon for the laythey. 108 megapixels is so many pixels and it means your photos will look better than ever, because more pixels equal better photos. My photos look incredible, I bet! I thought I might be bummed out by the fact that I'll no longer have a 3x telephoto lens like I do on my iPhone 13 Pro, but then I remembered that I'm a fucking moron! 5x is more than 3x! Give me more!
As an unprofessional writer, I can't wait for iPhone to write all of my emails and text messages and blog posts. To be clear, I abhor AI, but Apple Intelligence just seems so much safer, more private, and less creatively bankrupt. It has to be—iPhone is at the intersection of Technology and Liberal Arts, after all. I'm very Liberal! I love art! Technology is great! This thing is made for me.
I didn't think I could love something like this magical Internet portal. The smooth glass. The buttons—all 4 3/4 of them. The USB-C port. The speakers. The LIDAR thing. The Face ID. Wow. Oh my god. Fuck. Holy shit. Christ! CHRIST! Honestly, I love this lil' guy so much I don't even know what else to say about it. I guess it is proof that there is actually an almighty with a very particular hyperfixation on our overall wellbeing? His favorite creations now receive a gift befitting of the title. A splendiferous object wrought of magic and wonder and—oh wait, one sec, doorbell. I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere!
Sorry, it was the UPS guy. Look what just arrived! Now I can love it for realsies!
Even before opening the box, I can tell that my assumptions are completely justified. Don't just take my word for it. Actually, wait! Do. I am very trustworthy! Why would I lie? I wouldn't! I haven't. I can't. My integrity remains uncompromised. I am a vessel for truth, a blessing given to me by the Technolord. Her name is Cheryl. We are friends. I am your friend. Believe me. Our parasocial relationship is actually quite normal! iPhone! ipHone! ipHooe!
Aside from all of the Apple Intelligence stuff they clearly advertise as being a marquee feature of this device. Someone call Lina Kahn maybe, I dunno, lol! ↩︎
Update—10/11/2024: The essay that this post is about is done. I did it. It's out there. It was worth toiling over.
As I start this document, it is 2:46 in the actual A.M. and I have absconded from the warmth of my bed to bask in the putrid blue glow of this godforsaken monitor. If endless scrolling on a barely lit OLED wasn't conducive to sleeping, I shudder at the thought of what this is doing to me. iA Writer, for all of the beauty inherent in its minimalism, is quite blinding. I can see the little floaties bespeckling my cornea, they dance around with every microadjustment of my eye, little squiggly patches of blur flitting about.[1] Are my eyes dry? Is it allergies? Is it cancer? Am I just old?
I am having a really hard time.
Eye floaties aside. Sleep deprivation aside. Presidential election rumination aside. Could we be moving to Europe?? aside. I'm not currently wearing a shirt aside. The time I experience is dense, petrified, memories seized up into an impenetrable carapace. There's no chiseling any meaning out of it. Just a crust, cruft condensed, coagulated, coarse and incredulous.
I started writing an essay about my cousin a few weeks ago. My cousin died and I haven't cried for him. My cousin died and when we were kids he was who I looked up to more than anyone and then we became adults and I didn't even know who he was anymore and then he died. I've been sitting with this for nearly three fucking years, and now that I'm writing everything out to make sense of it, the closer I get to finally finishing this, the further away I feel from understanding.
I thought maybe taking a small break would help. Enjoy the wedding weekend in Chicago! Walk around the city. Take photos. Enjoy time with friends. Eat breakfast sandwiches from Loaf Lounge, you putz! You're on vacation. You can write when you're home.
You can write when you're dead.
No, wait! That's the whole point. You can't. You can't. What are you saying? You've got this one chance. He had his one chance. What good are you going to do when you're growing trees?
I am having
a really hard time
I don't even know if it's my story to tell. Is my reality valid? Are these feelings for the world or for me? What am I supposed to do with all of this brain stuff, keep it for myself? I am not a good steward!
I
am
having
a
really
hard
time
and I guess I just want to tell him one last time that I love him. That I'm sorry we stopped talking after I quit Facebook in 2017, that I'm still angry at the person he became, the things he believed, the theories that killed him. Is there space for reconciliation or is it too late? Maybe I'll get a chance to ask him when the eye floaties finally come for me. For once, I hope he was right about God. Did He forgive?
What am I supposed to do now? Wrap it up into a thing and give it to the world and hope that that's enough?
I'm trying.
I'm trying!
I'm trying.
Try harder.
Which reminds me, I should make an optometrist appointment so these motherfuckers stop harassing me. ↩︎