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Last week my old roommate killed himself. I only lived with him for a month, and that was during my time away from diaryland, so you didn't get to hear about him. He was simultaneously a complete wreck of a human being and a saint. Now he's simultaneously a chalk outline and a smear of brain matter.

That wasn't funny at all.

My method of coping with this has been to joke about it. It's what keeps me from feeling so guilty about his death. The fact is, I didn't like the guy, and I feel I should have been nicer to him. I did everything I could, though. He was addicted to crystal meth and became very unpleasant to be around. What was I supposed to do, listen to him tell me his problems for 72 hours on end like he wanted me to do? No, I just moved out of the apartment and stopped speaking to him. Now I find out that one week ago he splattered his brains all over the sidewalk on campus.

Fuck.

And I still have some of my things in his apartment.