My friend has died.
We knew each other through this site for about 14 years. We didn't like each other at first. I was a liberal, he was a conservative, we fought like hell. For a long, damn time, we fought like hell. I hated him, he hated me, the war would never end.
And at some point, almost at the same time, we started exchanging messages. I don't remember which of us sent the first one. But we decided we were tired of hating each other, and it was time to try being friends instead.
We still fought some. We still hated each other's politics. I thought he was a bit too rough on some users sometimes. But we were friends a hell of a lot more often.
We were editors at the same time. He got the rep as the Mean Editor, which was not fair, because I was probably at least as brutal as he was with the nuke button, maybe even more so. But our friendship was forged in the fire of Beating the Shit Out of Bad Writeups and Trollish Newbies, and that's a damn fine way for a friendship to get forged. Some of y'all got pissed about that, and honestly, we didn't care. We laughed and laughed about it, because every nuke was righteous, and every complaint was music to our ears. We were goddamn sons of bitches, but we were goddamn sons of bitches for the benefit of this site we both loved, and you'd never have convinced either of us we were wrong.
I wrote Dannye Boy for him. The first reading I ever did for an E2 podcast was of his Only child: Downside because, well, I can't remember why. Because I loved it, mostly. I always kinda wanted to read his All the gold you can eat, but I've never been brave enough to try it. I'm quite sure I'd be weeping long before the end.
When he told me he really liked one of my writeups, or something I recorded for the podcast, I knew I'd really done a damn good job. Those were good days. Just goddamn good days.
Almost every time he'd add a new writeup, I'd be amazed at just how good a writer he was. He was a crotchety old son of a bitch, but goddamn, he wrote like a house on fire. Go read his top-rated writeups. Go read them and be astounded. You'd forgotten he was that good, didn't you? I'd forgotten, and then he'd remind me with a new writeup. Like a house on fire.
We finally started exchanging the occasional phone call in the last few years, after he learned he was sick. He sent me an ancient childhood toy, just because he wanted me to have it. I've set it up in my cubicle, among a bunch of goofy action figures, and I think of him every time I see it. I don't know what it'll be like to see it now. But I won't move it or hide it. He sent it because he wanted me to have it, and I love getting to think of him.
My friend has died. And I'm damned, damned tired of my friends dying.