A side note... and a depressing one at that

I just sent the saddest e-mail I've written all year. Sadder than losing Wilson's bakery, sadder than pet food recalls, sadder by far. I sent an e-mail to Ken Estep. The father of Adam Estep. The reason I spent two months crying a few years ago, and still find myself crying some days. The one tragedy I still pray everyday I wake up that it didn't really happen. The best man I ever knew in my life, the perfect ideal, and the only friend I ever kept no matter how many times I moved in my childhood died in Iraq. I hate Bush. I hope he dies. Secret Service, if you're listening, go ahead, bring that asshole around me and see how fast I produce a sharp object, or a dull one for that matter, and gut him like a fish. I know, I know, more people to blame than just Bush. Bush didn't make Adam sign up. No matter how hard I try, I can't fault Adam. I still see that face in my head and all I can do is love him. Ken and Carrie have a giant portrait of Adam in the entryway. If I was them, I couldn't stand it. To this day the sight of his face is devastating. I'm going to visit them next weekend while I'm in town, bring a cake or something, they like strawberrry cakes. And ask them for a copy of one particular drawing Adam did. One that I want tattooed with the fitting caption stolen from Skid Row "I Remember You".
I still wish it hadn't happened... that I could've prevented it somehow. But I can't. He deserves at least a tattoo. And this year, I'm getting it. I've let it wait for too long. Like all of us chronic-depressive-masochistic-cutters, I need the pain on the inside to show on the outside.