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Did I tell you yet?
I forget.

Let's check. Looks like no.

Fine then. Story is, Joe died, February 23. The thing is -- I can't find an obituary.

The long and short of it is, around the 23rd, Joe and I hadn't really 'talked'. We'd been kind of bored, and not really passing a dialogue. The last thing he said to me, in response to, "I'm bored", was "Go havve cybersexx".

He goes offline; so I tell him something about cybersex is boring, because the average fucker up to it is unimaginative, and too stupid to fuck off; I pretend to have a dick, and they're still writing shit about jizzing on my MASSIVE INTERNET BOOBIES. I never did get to elaborate on this.

20 minutes later, someone claiming to be his mom starts talking to me; she tells me they found Joe, passed out outside. I'm in Canada, right? So, I ask if he at least had a jacket. He's in Vegas, and apparently they don't need big coats in the dead of February there.

Joe goes to the hospital. The mom bitches me out for talking to Joe about x-rated crap. "How could you speak to a child about YOUR BREASTS." We establish that essentially, Joe has never really told me much about his personal life -- I fail to get across the fact that Joe was the one telling me to have cybersex/Joe and I had a running dialogue full of colorful shit. He's.. was.. 15. My brother is similar, at that age; really, it's a bonding factor.

I spend a crappy night fretting.

I wake up to the Mom PMing me, around noon. This is, by far, the worst thing she told me: "He woke up screaming [so they tranq'd him back to sleep]."

I fuck off, after she stops kind of giving me details. I figure, shit -- why stay at home, be a basketcase.

I hit Jay's and Bill's; this ends up being the last time I face Bill, because I can't take the teen crowd. Both try to assure me that Joe will be fine. That no, I probably won't end up talking to cops. (I'm just envisioning talking to the Nevada cops. "No, really. I'm a lesbian. Not a pedophile. Really.")

When I come home, I find a message basically telling me that while I was gone, Joe had died. Ever since, I have imagined him screaming, and fighting, all the way in to death. It's an ugly picture.

Over the month, someone posts on Joe's FB that he's dead. A little RIP thing. Then, I can't see his wall. Then I'm blocked, completely. The mom occasionally pops up on his MSN; looking for more people to tell. Eventually, that ceases, too.

I assume that his FB has been deleted; turns out I was blocked. Someone's still dicking with pictures. The last I saw, before Cherish was blocked, was a juggalo.

I've spent weeks scouring online obits. Can't track his.

Part of me is all fucked over losing him. Part of me is horrified that maybe this is a stunt; I'm sick with hope, fear, worry, regret. It's like a Bob Zmuda moment, "[Joe], if you're still alive.. I'm going to kill you [from all that emotional turmoil you put me through; but Jesus, I'd be happy to know you weren't dead, after I stopped being pissed]."

I was such a tard, in grief, that I bought a tree, and named it after him. I patted the leaves, all week. I hoped he'd haunt me; visit in a dream. Send me a sign. I hoped to find some lost message. A hint.

All month, I've gone between feeling blank, and desperately longing for his dead-self's approval. I've been guilt-tripping myself over what Joe may or may not have thought about me/things.

I've been plotting obits. Just to fill in for the one I can't find.

I had no idea how much this kid meant, until he disappeared. I spent the entire time knowing him.. striving to know him. All those times I lost the computer? The internet? He was the one I wanted to get back to.

Ah, the hazards of internet friendships.

I miss the little fucker. I miss him, because he was my little buddy; despite the fact that he was probably a good foot taller than I am. Despite the fact we never met in person. He was my fucking homeboy.

It's hard, typing this now. The unsurity of it all astounds me.

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