It has been Three hundred and nineteen days since Jason Skot Beazley killed himself.
Not even a whole year.
I don't think about him often, maybe once a month.
I miss him.
At one point, probably when Jason and I were closest, I told a girl that I would loathe Jason.
Because she loathed Jason. I am sure she doesn't feel that way any more.
Every time I think about Jason, I want to reach out.
I want to touch someone else that knew him.
I want to tell other people that I remember him.
I frequently get to thinking about what a sunny life I thought he had.
Which puts me in the now well worn rut of thinking, if he couldn't hack it
What kind of fucking balls do I have still existing?
It's pretty arrogant and simplistic,
I understand.
I just can't help knowing that I might as well bleed out
Because better men than me have tried living in this world
And they failed.
Jason Failed. I can't get over that.
Jason Skot Beazley. The man I admired so much.
God, I miss you Jason.
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