Grief is a funny thing

[Kanye West - Stronger]

This post will have no rhythm to it, or purpose or point. This post will not be clean and groomed. This post will be raw emotion, flooding out of my fingers as fast as they can move. This post is a catharsis, for god DAMN do I need to get this out of my system before I go insane.

Here at Straight from the Snark's Mouth, I try to post things that you, my loyal readers, want to see. I try to leave out the drama and bullshit of my day-to-day life and bring you only the best possible content: shooting, art, baby-related awesomeness.

Tonight, though, I will do something I don't often do: I will remind my readers that this is my blog, started for my use. This blog is an outlet for my frustrations and anger, my happiness and joy, and though I don't often show it to you, great big Internets, it is still there. I try to word things nicely when I do talk about that drama and bullshit, so you won't think, “Oh, another emo moment from the mind of a self-centered young woman.”

Well, you can kiss my ass. If I want to vent, I'm going to vent. And so I shall.

I really shouldn't be so callous, I know. But I'm reeling from the sudden and unexpected death of a friend. His funeral was Saturday, and the Redhead and I, along with a group of about twenty of our friends, piled into every available vehicle we had and convoyed up to the city for our final good-byes.

It was a beautiful service, though many of us did not like the preacher that delivered the eulogy. He was trying too hard to push the message of accepting Jesus, but I suppose that is his job. And were I standing in his shoes, and looking out at the mismatched crowd there to bid final farewell to Luc, I probably would have done the same thing.

You could tell who was family in the chapel: clean and shaved, wearing somber dress and suit to show mourning, as proper. And then, scattered around those sharp-dressed mourners, were the friends that wept for the loss of Luc: the friends that he drank with, he smoked with. The friends that he practiced every last bit of debauchery alongside. We were not dressed as somberly as his family. No, we were dressed the way Luc would have wanted us to dress. Fuck fancy clothes, he would have said. Come as you are.

So we did.

We arrived, the contingent from Warrensburg, in a dozen cars and small trucks in various stages of falling the fuck apart, and stepped into the bright sunlight to the disapproving stares from family that did not know us. Band t-shirts, Tripp pants, leather and chains, spikes and tattoos bared for all the world to see. And tears streaming down every face as we grieved just as much for Luc as his family did. I wore an Iced Earth t-shirt that I met Luc in, and Redhead wore an Ozzfest t-shirt that Luc had given him. And even the most callous and unforgiving grudges were set aside as we wept together.

[Trapt – Headstrong]

We were relieved to see that Luc would not be laid to rest in a monkey suit. Never would his girlfriend, his partner, and mother to his children, Jen, allow such a thing to happen. No, he was delivered to the afterlife in jeans, a black t-shirt, and the leather vest he so often wore, with his tattooed knuckles crossed and one of his many gothic crosses resting in his palms. The preacher told stories of Luc in his youth, and I, having only known him for a couple of years, was surprised to hear some of the things he said. We were reminded not to weep for him, for he was in a better place and free of the worries and strife that so plagued all of us, but such words mean little when you see his beautiful four-year-old daughter, Lillian, crying because she knows her daddy is dead and she'll never see him again.

Luc was the go-to man for parties. He threw the loudest, proudest parties in town, and was well-known for the trouble that was caused at them. People had drank, smoke, fought, and fucked at these parties, while Luc stood back and cheered everybody on. He was the king of Warrensburg's debauchery. Of course, he also tried to convince every female he met to sleep with him, and I was no exception. Most of the time, introductions to Luc ended up sounding something along the lines of “Nice tits, wanna fuck?”

And his death was so sudden, so out of the blue, that we were left gasping. Crass though he may have been, he was our friend and he cared about all of us in his own unique way. None of us doubted this, and as RC walked down the aisle, his t-shirt clutched in one fist to be laid in the open casket, we all were reminded that the feeling was mutual.

[Sick Puppies – Riptide]

And then, as the service came to a close and we all stepped out in the suffocating afternoon heat, sweat pouring down our backs and our faces as no less than a dozen men helped to carry the casket to the mausoleum he would be enshrined in forever, we huddled together under the shade offered by the trees lining the cemetery. We clung to each other for reassurance and comfort, tears streaming down our faces with no shame. That is the only time, I think, that many of us would see each other cry.

As they slid the wide casket, for Luc was not a small man, into the opening in the mausoleum for him, we all passed it in a single-file line. Hugging Jen and the kids, shaking hands with Luc's mother, and resting a hand on the end of the casket for a moment. Uncle Face laid down dog tags that they had made for Luc: he had earned the right to be a Hemp Knight. Jonathan pressed his forehead against the casket and wept. Another man removed his fedora and set it in the shadows.

[Nine Inch Nails – Head Like A Hole]

And then we climbed back into the ovens that were our cars, left out in the sun for three hours, and made our way home to Warrensburg, all of automatically going to the house that Luc and Jen were living in. Jen has, as far as I know, not set foot in that house for longer than it takes to get clothes and necessities for her children since she came home on her lunch break last Tuesday and found her boyfriend dead of an overdose.

Once everyone had arrived at the house, we began to celebrate Luc's memory in the only way that was proper: we drank. I was unable to beat my liver into submission, for bad weather was rolling in and I could not take Daniel to a babysitter, so I gave Redhead a hug and a kiss and wished him well, then took myself home. He crawled into bed at 6 AM the next morning.

The memory of Luc will live on in our hearts and minds, of that there is no doubt. We may not be able to see him or hear his voice now, every time we take a shot, hit the bong, light a joint, WHATEVER it is that your vice is, we will think of Luc.

Rest in peace, friend. We miss you.