I thought this made a pretty good eulogy.
You are the same as ever:smartest in the class but modest enough to deny it at every chance.Acing all your tests and pleasing all the teachers but still grinning ruefully when I fail my exams.
You are sitting in that shitty little chair at the back of your room that we lovingly referred to as "The Shit Chair"-you are sitting there,your black bangs covering your face as you write or study or come up with an idea for a school play or something.
You are sitting with me in my room listening to Pablo Honey and bitching about the chavs in our class,while we pig on Mars Bars and Twix's.
You are sitting next to me in sixth-period Religious Studies,debating with the teacher about gays and abortion and punk music,her threats of detention and suspension never stopping you.
You are laughing along with me as we sit through Russell Brand's show in Dublin,where I fully admitted I would piss myself in public,and where you fell out of your seat,gasping.
You are clenching your fists and gritting your teeth with me and Pizza when that stupid girl in Home Ec insulted Frerard and called Gerard Way a "fag"-and she met her match.
You are screaming your lungs out with me as you proclaim your undying love for My Chem when they played in Belfast in 2007,killing me when you screamed "Fuck LynZ-take meeeeeeeeeeeee!"
You are raising your eyebrows in disbelief when our geography teacher announced her son had killed himself-that was the real reason she left.
You are sitting over there on our sofa-right over there-insulting MTV,making up names for Lady Gaga and Nicki Minaj,saying that music is dead,man,and we should all mourn.
You are with me as I dye my hair platinum blond and then telling me it looks amazing-and un-ginger.
You are singing the chorus of Michael Jackson's Smooth Criminal along with me as we skip through the corridors of that fancy London hotel when we went on that school tour a year ago.
You are beating absolutely everyone in arm-wrestling-you always wondered why people never played you,and that was 'cause you'd beat even the big bulky rugby players down the road.
You are tapping your foot along with "Baby" when me and you were dragged to Never Say Never by Izzie and Abbey,and then admitting shamefacedly that he's not so bad after all-but his music's still shocking.
You are crying with relief with me as we receive our Junior Cert results-you thought you'd failed,when really you were one of the best students in the entire county.
You are smiling pleasantly at me as I unwrap my sixteenth birthday present-a vintage Strat that must've cost hundreds-and then hugging me as I squeal and dance around the room.
You are panting and grinning along by my side as we run those last few meters of that 10km run Pizza dared us to do.
You are gasping and screaming as you ring me on the 22nd of September-My Chemical Romance have put up a new video on Youtube-it's called "Art Is The Weapon."
You are queuing with me at six o' clock in the morning to buy Danger Days in HMV on Monday,the 22nd of November,and even though we got detention for being late,I saw you grinning every time you looked at the album.
You are in your room,getting dressed up as usual-you always wore dresses,even on a Saturday,when I'd in my ultra-sexy sweatpants and hoodie combo.
You are discussing our List Of Hot Guys and the verifications we should make;and then freely admitting to the randomer next to you that you would gladly rape Bradley Cooper,Mike Dirnt or Gerard Way.
You are walking your dog and yanking him hard on the lead when he would stop to piss-out of love,of course.
You are with me in the school shop,and talking about how the shop assistant would always ignore you even if you were at the front,and then going "OH MAH GOD" when she would continue to ignore you.
You are walking home with me on that fateful Monday afternoon,and the last thing I say to you is-"don't forget to record South Park";you nod and wave at me,and that's the last time I see you.
You aren't with me when I arrive the next morning,just about to ask you what Biology homework we had-when I see your mom sobbing,the police blaring and the ambulance glaring outside your house.That house I know so well,just as well as my house.I hear them talking about teen suicides and drugs and Jesus isn't it just terrible Jim and I know what's happened.
You aren't with me when I have to go to the removal with the rest of the class in our uniforms-and I shake your mother's hand and everything is so awkward and robotic I just want to scream.
You aren't with me as I read the eulogy at your funeral-white lilies,as you had always wanted-and when they played "Helena"-you're not with me then.And I really could've fucking used you then,y'know.
You aren't with me now as I type this-as I sit in my room listening to your copy of The Cranberries' No Need To Argue and I hug your English book you left here last Friday.It's the green one,the one all your notes were.Looking at your sloppy,casual writing makes me want to smile and puke simultaneously.
You aren't with me;but you're still you.
See you in a while-