This was a woman who, in addition to being younger than me, was an eminently better person. She was kind, and thoughtful, forgiving, and fun. She was ravaged by mutating cells, that changed parts of her body into foreign, harmful tissue. She had cancer.
In all the memories people have shared of her "Coffee and a Cigarette" were as ubiquitous as they were in her life.
I am having a stereotypically masculine reaction to this event: I am angry. I can't stop seeing the imbalances in life, the randomness.
Why is it that someone who did only right by people is dead, after a terrible, wasting illness, yet there are others alive who do nothing but steal, lie and manipulate, who berate, and demean others.
I was offered news of my ex-wife today. I refused this. I don't want to know about her unless her life has fallen apart.
I suppose I'm directing my rage against someone who gives offense by their choice. Being angry at cancer is useless; ire at Amy is foolish.
My ex chooses to be a liar, chooses to ignore her own patterns, chooses to use others. She knows she does it. She said as much to me. I hate that she has friends. I hate that her life isn't one endless karma-bath. She has never done anything good for anyone without expecting something in return, even if it's years later.
I hate the way death affects me, leaving all nerves raw, all scabs picked. I started thinking about Amy, and all the good times with her, and I started to well up. I couldn't take crying. So I'm angry.
